


Checkmate

by Bibliotecaria_D



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 18:25:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibliotecaria_D/pseuds/Bibliotecaria_D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every Cybertronian goes into check, so it shouldn't be a problem -- but it is. </p><p>See Vortex.  See Vortex run.  Run, Vortex, run.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One: Ratchet

**Title:** Checkmate  
 **Warning:** Heatfic, of a sort, and frank talk of interfacing. Consent issues, if you choose to interpret it through human eyes instead of an alien culture.  
 **Rating:** PG-13, at least.  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Ratchet, Vortex, Hook, Ironhide  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors (or scenery), nor does it make a profit from the play.   
**Motivation (Prompt):** http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/11776.html?thread=13311232#t13311232

_All Transformers have routine maintenance/checkups to make sure they're in functioning order and maybe take care of things that need doing/replacing every so often. One of these necessary things is an analysis of a certain type of spark radiation, maybe to check for a very rare but devastating power fluctuation in one's spark. This is checked once every vorn to make sure a Transformer doesn't develop it. Thing is, it's usually overwhelmed by the spark's other radiation and can't be detected. The only time when it's strong enough to get a reading on it is when the mech is on the brink of overload. And since the fluctuations are so subtle, the sensors have to be exposed to the radiation for a long period of time---say, half an hour? to get a proper reading. But if the mech overloads, all the intense radiation from that will ruin the sensor, and they have to start over again._

_So basically, once a vorn, EVERY mech, Autobot and Decepticon, has to visit a medic and be held at the brink of overload long enough to get this reading._

 

**[* * * * *]  
Part One: Ratchet  
[* * * * *]**

 

They called it being ‘in check.’ There was a long technical term for it involving fourteen syllables and every vowel that could be bought, but nobody but Perceptor used it. Everyone else just said they were in check, and that was the end of it.

It wasn’t a big deal. Machine in general needed to go through extensive check-ups occasionally. The more a machine was used, the more the mechanisms needed to be inspected for malfunctions, worn servos, stripped wires, programming errors -- all of it. The whole maintenance package. Engineers knew what mechanical upkeep was like.

Robots, especially living ones, didn’t have downtimes. Only drones powered down completely and came back online the same as they turned off. Cybertronian bodies functioned all the time, even in statis. That meant that the weak points were always under pressure. Potential wear-spots wore down constantly, stripped wires had to be replaced before pain started, and parts couldn’t be snapped out and replaced without surgery. Defragmenting and processor backups happened as a standard part of recharge protocols to maintain the computer inside, but it was the _rest_ of the body that needed to be looked after by a trained medic. 

Especially during war. Oh, sure, everyone had been accustomed to heading to a clinic for a physical once every five vorns before the war had started, but now that physical was army-mandated. It was done twice a vorn whether or not a mech wanted it.

Even before the war, however, Cybertronian bodies had naturally taken steps to take care of themselves. Call it an evolution of independent processes, but as sentience had grown on Cybertron, so had the ability of that sentient’s casing to look after itself. The short system tests run during recharge weren’t enough. Stress tests weren’t possible during recharge. Once a vorn, no matter what a mech did to stop or stall it, every system went into turnover and began running an intensive self-scanning sequence. 

Autobot, Decepticon, or Neutral, everybody went into check. That was part of Cybertronian life. 

And that was _fine_. Normally, it barely registered on everyone else’s radar. It was something that happened, and the people around a mech in check adjusted their schedules the same way they did for any other daily matter. In Earth local time, the full range of system fluxes as their bodies ran the tests lasted approximately a week. More, if a mech had to block it off for some reason. Less, if he went with it, which was what most mechs did on automatic. Either way, a week in check was no great loss of time for a race that lived millions of years. 

It could even be kind of relaxing. Ratchet likened it to systematically using, stretching, and relaxing every part of a human’s body in a detailed examination. It was a series of scans meant to test for problems. If humans could scan their internal organs on their own, in his opinion, they’d understand why this was such a non-issue in Cybertronian life. Check was just part of how mechanical beings worked.

It didn’t fall in a particular order, but mechs generally started out the check by recharging like a lead brick for about two days straight as everything under the armor shut down to a low ebb of nonstop internalized scanning. That transitioned into then being unable to cycle down for the next five days. Energon was pushed aside as utterly revolting until about day three, when tanks that had been steadfastly refusing to open their intakes suddenly wanted to go vampire on the nearest friend or enemy if that’s what it’d take to suck down some fuel. No fuel whatsoever flipped to devouring double rations in order to power every system going into hyperdrive. _Every_ system. Autobots cleared the gun range at a run when someone in check stormed in, glazed stare of target-lock overlay in place, and Primus help whoever supervised combat practice that day. 

Fresh cans of lubricant and bottles of coolant became the Holy Grail on about day five, when line-flushes began. There was a miserable hour or two when used fluids of every kind spewed out of a mech’s waste ports. That was wet, messy, and embarrassing if it happened in the middle of rush hour traffic in Portland.

Well, at least the interface equipment check was fun. Lasted three days, roughly, and left mechs wrung-out in its wake, but it was fun. 

Except for the minor detail of the rad-scan. And it wasn’t really that the rad-scan was terrible or anything, but half an hour of begging on the edge of a firmly denied overload was only enjoyable in retrospect. _Very_ enjoyable, perhaps, but before and during the rad-scan? Never had such filthy curses and sweet promises been piled upon medical staff, usually within the space of the same sobbing ventilation.

The Monopatinous radiation scan was very necessary, as the disease it spotted could wipe a colony if it wasn’t countered in the early stages. The ‘Skateboard Disease,’ as Spike dubbed it once Ratchet finally explained what was going on. The medic had to inform him why every Autobot got locked into the isolation ward at some point during the four-million-year delayed wave of check that hit the _Ark_ over the course of two short months.

Ratchet reset his optics doubtfully at the human. “...medical slang is Lock-Axle, but yes. It’s the same idea.”

Spike smiled, picturing Autobots wobbling about like they were balancing on unstable skateboards instead of feet. “So it seizes up your axles. Can’t you just grease them or something?”

“It’s a progressive disease,” the medic explained. “The first stage symptoms are locking axles and difficulty balancing. Secondary symptoms include spark pain, headaches, and stuck intakes. After that, it’s all downhill.” Spike gave him a quizzical look, and Ratchet shook his head. “We’re a race of moving parts. Freeze the moving parts, and we fall apart rather quickly. Second stage of Lock-Axle kills. If the fuel pump doesn’t stop first, the fuel lines will burst when valves stop opening to release pressure. Joints stop bending. Brain modules go dead as charge stops transmitting.”

Wobbling Autobots suddenly seemed much less funny. Sobered, Spike nodded. “Is it contagious?”

“Very.”

“Oh. So, you can just scan for it?” 

One red hand lifted and wavered noncommittally. It was a somewhat delicate topic. Not that the Autobots didn’t trust their allies, but they were also aware that the humans got upset over certain topics. The organic beings had already weird out once about what, for Cybertronians, was a completely natural mechanical process. The humans had found the system fluxes to be alarming, especially when cute, whimsical Fireflight had unexpectedly turned into a bouncing, trouncing maniac one day. He’d violently torn apart the gun range and then thrown both Sunstreaker and Sideswipe around the practice mat without once changing expression. True, neither of the frontliners had been trying to _hurt_ the Aerialbot, but Fireflight didn’t _do_ stuff like that. 

Right afterward, he’d inhaled four times his normal energon ration, grabbed the nearest piece of plating attached to someone warm and willing, and disappeared into the Aerialbot hangar. For 72 hours straight. Interrupted only by Ratchet barging in and hauling him to the isolation ward, but being dragged along the corridor floor certainly hadn’t meant the randy jet had stopped what -- or rather _whom_ \-- he’d been doing at the time.

Sparkplug and Spike had nearly jumped out of their own skins in shock. After that reaction, understandably, the Autobots were a bit leery about explaining that interfacing for 72 hours in a row wasn’t even a record for their race. Fireflight was young; his endurance would grow as his system efficiency improved. But Sparkplug had choked on thin air when Ratchet set just the preliminary definitions for an explanation down. He’d banned his son from the medbay before the discussion could go any further.

Apparently, the humans hadn’t even known what interfacing _was_. Giant robots having sex broke little organic brains? Go figure. 

“I can scan for it, yes,” Ratchet decided on after a split-second council with Prowl over the base commline. As long as the talk didn’t touch on ‘alien sex,’ Sparkplug had okayed talking about the topic with Spike. “Measuring the Monopatinous radiation level during check is one of the few opportunities we have to catch the disease before it moves into critical levels. The scanner equipment itself is finicky and useless for anything but this scan, but it allows us to filter out normal bodily radiation under certain conditions that only exist during the check.” He was not going to mention the filtering was possible because the interface stage of the check prioritized interface equipment tests above running conflicting systems at optimal baseline levels. Telling the humans that fragging a mech’s body into neutral was a medical necessity just wasn’t happening. Explaining that it was part of his duty to render the Autobots near-mindless with pleasure was not going to meet with approval from the human medical community, he could tell.

He hedged, “Opening up our spark chambers for the scan is a private matter, however. Using the isolation ward ensures patient confidentiality.”

_*”Pass the word that no one is to mention the methodology behind rad-scans,”*_ Prowl pinged out through the commline for everyone to hear.

_*”Please, please tell me he isn’t going to ask -- “*_ Jazz started.

“Can I sit in?”

Humans and their Pit-slag curiosity. Ratchet reset his vocalizer uncomfortably and scrambled for an answer even as the commline erupted into chatter.

_*”No!”*_

_*”Wow, who knew the Witwicky’s were voyeurs?”*_

_*”They’re just ignorant, you cad!”*_

_*”Oh, Primus, who would ever let a human in during -- “*_

_*”I call dibs on Carly.”*_

Ratchet twitched once as the chatter came to a screeching halt. That lasted a few seconds before the outraged shrieking started. Right. Well. Prowl could handle that one. Time for a tactical withdrawal from the conversation for the sake of patient rights. After all, he was the one who had to pull on a mask of medical neutrality and pretend he was made of ice no matter who walked in as the partner of whatever mech was in check.

He counted himself lucky, to be honest. The delayed check burnt through the Autobots in quick succession as every completed system turnover triggered the next mech (or three), but it’d done the same for the Decepticons trapped on Earth. Tt might well have been a normal part of their lives, but not when every single mech in a base was itchy with system scans. Ratchet didn’t want to think about what would have happened if the Decepticons had been at full power while all the Autobots were in check. A mutual check had resulted in an unofficial cease-fire instead of attacks.

It’d resulted in some funny incidents, as well. Funny as in strange, although there had been some incredulous laughter as well. Coinciding checks _had_ resulted in some vicious individual battles as both Autobots and Decepticons went through weapons system fluxes, but Ironhide had supervised and kept things from getting out of hand. The interfacing equipment tests? Not so much. It’d been either compromise or supervise, because willpower could only go so far.

Fortunately, Red Alert could be surprisingly practical under the right conditions. Fraternization policies didn’t go lax so much as they’d gone missing entirely. Autobots were given leave to frag whoever gave consent. 

Mechs in check didn’t go crazy, but system tests were important. Sex was a healthy part of a mech’s life. It was either test the fragging systems, or risk real problems down the road. Besides, they were all kind of selfish deep in their sparks. Taking care of themselves was more important than giving a scrap if the mech enthusiastically helping out at the time happened to be wearing a purple or red symbol. 

Prowl had rationalized it to the officers that if they didn’t look the other way, they’d had to deal with the fall-out some other way, and there were only so many disciplinary tactics available to him. It wasn’t like defection -- or even _af_ fection -- was really a problem. Emotional connections made during check were _not_ an issue. They just didn’t happen. The interface equipment stage of check was the crown prince bilgepump of _“Love ‘em and leave ‘em.”_

Plus, as Hot Spot had proven with Motormaster, nobody in check was under any obligation to respect his partner in the morning. There was an unofficial interfactional agreement not to take prisoners or start punching faces, yes, and maybe go for another round before parting ways -- but respect? Pffft, no.

So consequences got thrown out the window, and mechs grabbed whoever as available when the check started. There’d been a spacefarer pile-up in orbit that scandalized N.A.S.A. The moon had ended up with a new crater, and Cosmos had unexpectedly emerged as the dominant force in space soon after, pretty much by surfing Blast Off through re-entry. Of course, then Starscream had come blazing out of nowhere to ambush Skyfire during re-entry, and nobody knew who’d been in control after that. Neither thruster nor wing had been seen of shuttleformer or Air Commander until three days later, when Skyfire literally _crawled_ out of the Mohave Desert and called for someone to bring him a vat of energon and a pillow. 

Ratchet had his medical vows, which he held to despite the war. He respected individual choice. It’d been nice to have Red Alert and Prowl make the decision to look the other way, because he’d been dithering over raising the possibility himself. A closed population like what was currently on Earth was just asking for strange health problems to pop up and spread, and he needed as much cooperation with medical personnel as possible. First Aid had proven particularly popular in gaining that cooperation among the Decepticons who found themselves outside the _Victory_ when the best time for the rad-scan occured. Ratchet suspected it was because no Decepticon in his right mind was going to turn down a Protectobot group-frag while in the midst of check, and that’s what First Aid offered in exchange for cooperation with the scanning. He also suspected that more than a few Decepticons had escaped the _Victory_ in order to get a chance at that offer.

Ratchet himself had handled wading into the _Ark_ ’s wrecked common room to drag two Coneheads, a Cassetticon, and Optimus Prime off for the rad-scan. He’d freely handed the data over to Hook upon request. Hook had done the same with the scan results from Jazz, the Reflector components, and half his own gestalt, although he’d acquired it using far less medical professionalism than Ratchet employed. 

Jazz had sent flowers the day afterward, just to mess with the surgeon’s head. There’d been a bomb hidden in the stems. The tag had read, _‘Baby, you blew my mind!’_

One way or another, the rad-scan got done. So far, everyone had come up clean. Medics, surgeons, engineers, and scientists alike all knew what Lock-Axle could do if set loose on Earth to infect every Cybertronian trapped here. They were all cooperating to make sure the cascading checks resulted in a prolonged, bizarrely peaceful health test. The Decepticons and Autobots sort of, maybe, kind of worked together, but the check happened once a vorn, and usually not all together like this. This was unusual enough to temporarily disrupt war. But it’d be over with soon, and they could go back to shooting at each other instead of swapping cables.

Ratchet had believed it was over already, in fact, but there was the small matter of the Combaticons. One Combaticon, to be exact.

The Constructicons and Protectobots had gone off right on time, but the Stunticons and Aerialbots had been constructed on Earth. Everyone watched them closely in case of any problems, but they went through their first check just fine, triggered by the mass check ripping through both factions. They’d been tripped by the cascade effect. It’d been predictable enough. 

Nobody had thought to watch the Combaticons. Their pattern had been erratic to begin with: Blast Off had been triggered by Cosmos’ tryst in orbit instead of by anything happening back at the Decepticon base. He’d carried the system flux back to seed the turnover in his gestalt. That should have tripped the check in the rest of his team once they combined, but Bruticus only combined under Megatron’s orders. Megatron hadn’t initiated more than a short skirmish since the mass check started. Therefore, Swindle had finished full system turnover almost a month after Blast Off, and he’d only reluctantly reported for the rad-scan at the last possible minute after auctioning himself off for every single interface he could manage. Onslaught scorched through his own check in four days flat and impatiently demanded to be scanned at the first opportunity. Brawl had gone through a normal check with no complications.

“So?” Ratchet leaned back in his chair and eyed the screen with scant favor. On one side of the split screen, Red Alert and Prowl were watching intently from the bridge. “What do **I** care? Why are you telling **me** this?”

On the other of the screen, Hook refined features scowled. Calling for a consultation damaged his dignity, but even he had to acknowledge that this was a potential problem for every mech on Earth. “So Vortex hasn’t gone into check. You cannot tell me you want him running loose if he flips into frag-mode outside of strict supervision.”

And suddenly, Ratchet cared a great deal. “Thanks, I needed that nightmare in my life.”

“Aren’t Autobots all about sharing?” Hook asked sweetly. 

“Frag you.”

“As Starscream said to Megatron: ‘not even if you died during overload.’”

The Autobot medic sighed and leaned forward to run a hand down his face. “Now we know how low his standards go, I suppose. Alright.” He smacked his hand down on the desk. “Is he attempting to suppress, or is he just that socially out-of-sync?” Mechanical influence did trigger cascade checking for whole bases, or in this case, planets. Having a single mech stand out indicated that _something_ was wrong, but whether Vortex was ill or simply too crazy to feel any sort of outside machine pressure was the unknown factor.

Primus spare them from a full-fledged Lock-Axle break-out. It could wipe out whole colonies, and it was only curable in its early stages.

“That’s what I don’t know.” Oh, did that hurt Hook’s pride to admit, however sourly. “How much can check be suppressed, and for how long? Scrapper got him in for a physical, but this is not my area of expertise. I’m not certain what I should be looking for. His stress levels were off the chart, but he was fighting the loyalty programming at the time. Megatron had to order him into the repair bay,” the surgeon grudgingly elaborated when Ratchet’s optics narrowed at that detail. “Even chaining him down didn’t help calm him.”

“Why would **chaining him down** \-- “ Blue optics widened before narrowing again. “Don’t answer that. I’m fairly sure I can imagine why that helps.”

Vortex didn’t have notoriety as a sadomasochist for nothing. Ratchet didn’t envy Hook even on a bad day in the Autobot medbay, because he didn’t want to think about comparing Tracks’ prima donna waxing issues with what went on in the Decepticon repair bay.

That got a thin smirk. “Bonecrusher bent his rotor blades around the table legs, and he still didn’t relax any.”

The things he learned in the name of medical information. “Stop that,” Ratchet ordered. “Just tell me someone’s outright **asked** him why he’s not in check yet?”

Hook opened his mouth. Twice. No words came out either time. His dignity could only collapse under the application of logic. Decepticon logic: 0. Autobot: 1.

“I know he’s Vortex,” the Chief Medical Officer pointed out with ruthless reason, “but even Vortex must know that being in check is the only time the rad-scan can be run. Even if he’s being,” inexplicably and alarmingly, “discreet about the rest of the system tests, we’ve all been keeping the ‘facing in the open for access to medical services. I’d have thought, if nothing else, that he’d enjoy the method -- “

“He does,” Hook interrupted hastily in an effort to appear less flummoxed than he was. “He’s been on-call as a volunteer assistant for two months now, and he’s slagging **good** at it. My efficiency rating is the lowest it’s ever been for the record numbers going through the test. First-time success rate is above 80%.” He looked briefly thoughtful. “Although I could swear that Soundwave threw the scan on purpose the first two attempts.”

“I can hang up any time, you know,” Ratchet threatened. He didn’t need to know that about Soundwave. It immediately brought Prowl to mind, and he didn’t need to think about any sort of parallel between the respective factions’ cold-sparked officers. Control freaks with a fetish for medical restraints and a power kink to boot. What, was it some sort of requirement for the rank? 

He had to stomp on a little scoff, and only because Prowl was staring right at him through the split screen. Prowl had specifically requested that Ratchet flub the test as many times as the tactician could endure. Half an hour of denied overload had turned to six hours of teasing the Autobot Second to the brink and keeping him there to shudder and beg for release until -- finally -- Ratchet ‘accidentally’ let him slip over the edge. Over, and over, and over again. 

Soundwave had only gone three rounds? Heh. Amateur.

Hook did a lousy innocent act. Ratchet would know, since his own poker face was currently in place. “It is relevant information,” the Decepticon insisted.

“Yeah, right. Pull the other one. It shoots daisies.” The silly human saying got a confused look that bought Ratchet a moment to think while Hook puzzled it out. “Alright, my first thought is to ask him upfront. Second would be to ask his gestalt.”

“Already did that.” The Constructicon waved a hand impatiently, and an alert observer might have picked up a hint of embarrassment. Who, him? Smoothing over a gaffe? Perish the thought. Yes, perhaps he had asked the team before directly asking the individual patient. To be fair to Hook, nobody really thought about asking Vortex for accurate information. “Outside of combining into Bruticus, Onslaught has no more insight into Vortex’s systems than anyone else.”

“And Bruticus hasn’t come out in battle for a month or better,” Ratchet agreed thoughtfully. “Medical appeal to Megatron for a test combine?”

“Not a chance. Unless we start keeling over, we’re deemed ‘healthy enough.’” That had to rankle Hook’s perfectionism. The surgeon grimaced. “You cannot imagine how long it took to persuade him that this is a matter affecting all of us on this blasted mudball.”

Couldn’t imagine, and didn’t want to be told. Consulting with the Chief Medical Officer of the opposite faction during a war wasn’t done casually. Soundwave was probably monitoring this call just as closely as Red Alert and Prowl. “Does Vortex typically try to avoid medical procedures?”

Hook’s smile was slow, full, and vicious. “Not when I am involved, no.”

On the other side of the split screen, Red Alert recoiled as he got just what the surgeon alluded to. Prowl’s face twisted before going blank. Ratchet was thoroughly unsurprised. “Right, then it’s not likely he’s avoiding the rad-scan itself. That leaves a few possibilities for diseases, none of them detectable on the surface, or -- well, it’s **possible** to push check off for a while, but not for long, and there are definite consequences.”

“What kind of consequences? Mechanical or mental?” Unspoken was Hook’s total lack of concern for Vortex’s already dubious sanity. 

“Mechanical, but affecting the mind.” Ratchet leaned back in his seat to cup his right hand under his left elbow and tap a finger against his chin as he thought. “Check doesn’t interrupt overall function for long; we’re capable of putting up our own system scan interference and remaining coherent throughout. The more it’s suppressed, the more the system test requests pile up in a mech’s buffer. It can be extremely overwhelming when suppression stops working.” His fingers flicked out in a shrug. “A mech’s mind can get bulldozed by a flood of sudden mechanical function requirements.”

Both medics abruptly stopped venting and reset their optics at each other as that registered. Vortex, sadomasochist interrogator and psychopath extraordinaire, released in a blitz of suppressed check.

“Ah, slag,” Ratchet breathed.

“Primus spare my operating table,” Hook agreed fervently. “Scrapper can appeal to Megatron to get him back in the repair bay. How do I tell if he’s suppressing?”

“Send me the data,” the Autobot said, hands flying over the console as he pulled up the _Ark_ ‘s medical research database. There were tell-tale signs, but scrap him for a tractor if he remembered them off-hand!

“Megatron will never agree to that. Just tell me how to induce the check, if I have to!”

Ratchet’s engine ground angrily. “For all I fragging know, he’s already gone through the full turnover. Inducing wouldn’t do anything but get you a current status update on his systems. Which,” he paused and thought that over before finishing slowly, “might be the best option. If he’s not willing to actually tell you, that is. If the check’s finished, his systems will refuse to go into another turnover. If it hasn’t started, then it will.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Hook shifted, pride warring with the fact that spark illnesses were not his area of specialty in the least. 

The list of diseases that could stomp the check was short and very memorable. Ratchet didn’t need to research it at all, sadly. “Then you’d better tell Megatron that sending me Vortex’s stats is the better option.”

 

**[* * * * *]**


	2. Part Two: Vortex

**[* * * * *]  
Part Two: Vortex  
[* * * * *] **

 

Vortex had never been so happy to be alone in his _life_.

Look, he was part of a gestalt now. He got it. He knew that true solitude was forever going to be a wistful dream from now on, because the spark-bond to the other Combaticons could be blocked but not removed. The gestalt hardware made his new dependency even more impossible to defy. And believe it or not, Vortex was actually quite a social mech. He liked being surrounded by mobile toys. Being a soldier in the ranks suited him just fine, because privacy usually wasn’t an issue for him. If he couldn’t get away from them, then they couldn’t get away from him, either. Even if he couldn’t indulge in his more violent urges as often as he’d like, over-share was still fun to spread around. That uncomfortable, stunned expression of _’I didn’t need to know that’_ was his friend, most days. 

Now? Not so much. Vortex had barricaded his spark off from the other Combaticons and hunkered down in a dripping, nasty swamp, and he wasn’t going back among other Decepticons until he absolutely had to. He didn’t want to _see_ anyone, he didn’t want to _talk_ to anyone, and he most certainly didn’t want to _touch_ anyone. The swamp was perfect. If he stayed still and quiet, which he thoroughly intended to, nobody would come looking for him for days. 

Exile to Bali was supposed to be punishment duty. Nobody wanted to babysit the Insecticons. Vortex had pulled in major favors to get here today. Disrespect to the right surgeon, laughing in the face of the right Air Commander, and pulling in all those favors owed by certain other winged mechs and construction frames in order to make certain Hook and Starscream’s disciplinary fury collided in a spectacular fit that got Vortex banished from the _Victory_ for at least the next month. Safe!

He hoped so, anyway. He warily ran a scan over his surroundings. Trees, bugs, and muck were the only things out there. The Insecticons were over in Indonesia somewhere causing low-level havoc the last he’d seen, which was exactly why he was hiding out under the shelter of the jungle canopy in Bali, instead. If the Autobots bothered to show up at all, they’d go toward Indonesia. If anyone noticed that he wasn’t doing his job, they’d either have to go ask the Insecticons where he’d gone -- he’d told them he had tickets for Disney World, so good luck with that; even giant mechanical aliens were nigh-impossible to find in Disney World, as Skywarp had proven -- or scout the tiny Bali outpost for clues to where he’d gone. 

The helicopter’s rotor blades bowed a bit more toward the ground in an unconsciously defensive attempt to huddle down further. His plating was daubed with mud, his landing gear was a tangled mess of greenery, and there were mushrooms growing in the leaf litter he’d heaped up over the glass of his canopy. He still felt exposed. He’d slagging well picked his way out of the tiny Decepticon outpost, _walking_ to make sure he couldn’t be spotted in the air, and crawled under the canopy. Ravage could track almost anything, but the swamp should slow the Cassette down. Vortex had done his best to disappear without leaving a track of disturbed vegetation in his wake. It’d taken him a while, but he’d found a suitably dark, cavern-like clear area under the tree cover, and then he’d rolled around on the swampy ground to try and blend in further before transforming and nestling against the biggest tree.

There were ants in his pilot seat. Some Seeker-bright species of bird had claimed one of his rotor blades for a mating display area and was hanging upside-down off the tip, chirping enthusiastically at a severely unimpressed female. There were monkeys in the vicinity. Also, he was starting to think that he was sinking into the ground. Which was fine because it’d hide him better, but he really hoped roots wouldn’t start twining around his landing gear. He’d seen Optimus Prime get taken out by a tree before, after all.

Vortex was a robot in fragging disguise, alright. He was filthy dirty, hot, and growing mold in unmentionable areas. 

Excellent. 

Wincing slightly, the ‘copter started unlocking the mire of conflicting counter-orders slapped over every single test request he’d been pinged with over the course of the last month. This was not going to be pleasant. There were ways to suppress the check that were supposed to be accessible only to programmers. Medics, engineers, and scientists all knew hacks to get around the systems turnover, but a lot of mechs tended to forget that interrogators came from the same pool of technical expertise. Vortex knew a few tricks to get around the check. They weren’t nice, but they worked -- for a while. 

He’d felt like his head had been splitting in two for the last couple of weeks. That was ending at long last, or at least it would as soon as he got the last of the suppressant code untangled and cleared his buffer to unload on his CPU. The hardware tests were going to land on his systems like Omega Supreme. If that bird built a nest in his rotor hub while he was knocked out, he really wasn’t going to be happy when he woke up. Groggily picking twigs out of there would be no fun whatsoever. 

He hoped that the energon he’d piled in his cabin before sneaking out of the outpost was going to be enough. When he woke up, he was going to be ravenous. Returning to the outpost -- or worse, the _Victory_ \-- wasn’t an option, however. He’d squirmed out of Hook’s grasp yesterday using a panicked burst of inspiration, but he could only fake a system log update so many times before it became obvious that he hadn’t fallen in check yet. The only reason Hook hadn’t caught the falsified record was because Vortex had started mocking him about being too incompetent to notice when he’d gone into check in the first place. Oh, had Hook been furious. 

Take one enraged surgeon. Add an Air Commander too pompous for his own good. Stir up with appropriately snide insults. It was a recipe for distracting attention away from the fact that Vortex _hadn’t_ gone into check yet, and he sincerely wanted that fact to stay hidden. Not that he really wanted to put off the tests, because the strained coding hurt in a way even he couldn’t enjoy, but no way in the Pit did he want the attention it’d draw. 

Every other Decepticon went into check, and it was life as usual. Nobody cared. Vortex went into check, and it set everybody’s afts on fire.

There wasn’t even a legitimate _reason_ for it. Alright, he understood that they thought they had reasons. The alarm was based off of extrapolating from his regular behavior, but Vortex knew he didn’t have a single tick on his record for problems caused during check. He’d made sure of that. He went out of his way to stay under the radar when the check started. Yet his reputation ensured that both Decepticons _and_ Autobots wanted him under observation the entirety of the interface equipment stage, and he couldn’t even protest their paranoia. Check typically took inhibitions away in favor of rampant hardware tests, and apparently both factions’ medics were having nightmares about what an already established sexual deviant might do.

If Hook got a hold of him, Vortex was going to be stuck in a room and not given a choice about how the check went, because _everyone knew_ how horrible he got under _normal_ circumstances. Nobody was taking a chance on what he’d come up with during check.

It’d be so much easier if he could just _explain…_

Well, he couldn’t. He knew better than to try. The check made him vulnerable in seriously unpleasant ways because any Decepticon worth his ammo could find a way to exploit it. Especially Megatron. Handing Megatron a gift-packaged way to effectively punish him would be sheer stupidity. 

It wasn’t normally so bad. The check was the most awesome excuse to kick back and really _enjoy_ his body ever invented. Extremes were his favorite things to feel, anyway, and pushing his body to the limits in system-by-system testing felt slagging good. Like many mechs, Vortex found the intensive system tests to be kind of refreshing. He knew how the check hit him, and he knew how to handle it. It took some finagling, but every mech learnt to deal with the check. It was part and parcel of being a Cybertronian. 

Despite over four million years in a statis box in the Detention Centre, Vortex was old enough that going into check wasn’t a surprise. Did he look like a newbie? Yeah, whatever. Any other time, any other world, and he’d be fine. Back on Cybertron, sensible foresight and some planning ahead had made the check run smoothly. 

He’d gotten his auxiliary scanning permit well before the war started, too, so he _really_ enjoyed the check in other mechs. Being a specialist in overload denial was right up his alley, and like _whoa_ did he sign up for volunteer slots in the medbay! Of course, he didn’t tend to flaunt the fact that he had official training in how to do the Monopatinous radiation scan. It was both sexy and scary to be held down by a sadistic interrogator during the rad-scan; advertising that he was a professional medical assistant sort of took the edge of danger off. Trust issues were so much more fun to play with when it wasn’t roleplay.

Volunteering for rad-scan assistance had upped the efficiency ratings for every Decepticon repair bay he’d ever been called in by, which was not only fun but suited Vortex’s own plans perfectly. What came around went around, and Vortex collected rad-scan favors the way Swindle did credits. Swindle delivered weaponry, however. Vortex delivered that final, processor-blowing overload right on time. 

Medics tended toward a 50/50 success rate when it came to the rad-scan, because balancing a patient on the razor-edge of climax required being able to dedicate attention to both the annoyingly picky scanning equipment and a patient’s spark. Ignoring the inevitable begging and whatever else that patient pulled out when willpower eventually snapped was more difficult than it might seem from the outside. Medics who got distracted or couldn’t accurately judge the patient’s level of arousal flubbed the test more often than not. Inadequately restrained patients had been known to break loose and overload themselves before they could be stopped. Sadistic and sympathetic medics alike got too involved in the suffering of the mechs under their hands. Bringing in a third party as a partner for the patient was an accepted part of the procedure, but that required the partner to resist any and all pleading while keeping the patient hanging for a torturously precise length of time.

The rad-scan was both looked forward to and dreaded for exactly that reason.

That’s where Vortex came in. He was, as the Elite Decepticons of Earth had discovered in the last two months, just clinical enough to make sadism in the repair bay a good strategy for passing the rad-scan on the first try. He was also discreet, despite frequently expressed doubt from those he or Hook talked into accepting his assistance. It was actually rather hilarious how many of the other Decepticons were side-eyeing him now, just waiting for him to start blathering about what they’d asked him to do for them or to them during the rad-scan. It was generally accepted that the rad-scan was _the_ time to try that kinky weird fetish a mech had always been curious about, because half an hour was a _long_ time to do the usual and expect it to keep working. There was no shame in experimenting.

Talking about it afterward was when the embarrassment hit. But Vortex _hadn’t_ started gossiping, no matter how Swindle leaned on him. Mechs sped out of the repair bay after the rad-scan, often hauling Vortex by a rotor blade as they demanded a repeat performance, and the check made that okay. They’d just expected him to bring it up afterward and spread their sexual deviations out for everyone to gossip about. He hadn’t.

Embarrassment wasn’t all the Decepticons felt afterward. Vortex had collected more than favors in his stint as medical assistant this time around. It was amazing how many mechs were willing to clang with him off the check, now. He’d set them straight on his own personal preferences; rad-scan assistance focused on what the patient needed to reach and ride the edge of overload, not what the assistant enjoyed. Vortex still liked his interfacing wild and painful. That put most off most of the offers post-check -- but the favors were still there, ready to be called in when his own turn in check hit.

That’s how he did it. Vortex hadn’t gotten his assistant license just because he liked the volunteer work. He’d let Hook assume that when he signed up for assistant shifts, but he did it because he had to save up favors owed to him. Because, inevitably, he went into check himself.

It’d been easier back in the early vorns of the war. Neutral medics had been simple enough to find, and even easier to bribe or kill to keep silent. Even back then, he’d realized his reputation was going to cause trouble if the truth got out. He had more than his fair share of enemies looking to exploit any weakness. 

As the war progressed, Neutrals had gotten harder to find and wilier, and Decepticon medics had stopped accepting rad-scans from unknown sources. It’d been more difficult, but he’d still found ways to keep things quiet. The first thing he’d done every time he’d been transferred to a new base or unit had been to scope out the repair bay. A few decent medics who respected patient confidentiality or large amounts of cash under the table had been a must. Calling in favors to get the appropriately discreet partners in place for the interface equipment stage of the check was a hassle, but not that big of a deal. 

The problem was that Vortex didn’t have a lot of options here on Earth. Or rather, he had options without having options. There was a base full of Elite Decepticons to choose a frag-partner from, and the Constructicons for monitoring the rad-scan. That eliminated both discretion and any hope for enjoyment that he had.

He’d tried. He really had. Setting the rad-scan up to run on its own had been tried by countless mechs before him, so he knew _that_ didn’t work. A medic had to be present to monitor his spark, because the radiation levels from interfering systems ran lower than the Monopatinous radiation only during the highest possible stimulation right before overload. That was almost impossible for a mech to monitor on his own. Starscream and that slagging Autobot shuttle had managed, somehow, but only the Air Commander’s rank had kept a wave of burning curiosity from tackling him from all sides, regardless of faction.

That left the choice of the Autobots, or Hook. No way was Vortex going to let the Autobots laugh their skidplates off at him if he could avoid it. Hook would inevitably laugh, too, but nobody else in the Decepticon base could do a rad-scan. The surgeon would keep his mouth shut if Vortex were sufficiently useful, however, so he’d made himself invaluable when the cascade of check hit Earth. Vortex swore that the mech had more feelings for his efficiency ratings than he did for his own combiner team. 

So that was set up and ready, but then there was the question of just whom he could pull in for a partner. Hook could help him out while running the scan but -- no. Just -- no. Of all the mechs Vortex could choose, Hook was probably the worst choice possible. A good interface partner for days Vortex felt particularly masochistic, but when he was in check? Not going to happen. Hook was obliged to ensure the rad-scans happened, not that the Decepticon he scanned was happy about it. 

Therefore, Vortex needed to find his own partner.

His reputation was the sticking point. Vortex was a sadomasochist to the utmost degree, and anyone he eyed for fragging during his check would be going into it with the expectation that _‘work it harder, make it better, move it faster_ was the default setting. Going above and beyond that would just be the high-grade in the stockpile for Vortex during check, right? Rutting mindlessly was the fun part of the equipment tests. Pinning Vortex down for some truly _energetic_ fragging and torment was too much of a temptation, for revenge if not because of the automatic assumption that it was what he wanted.

It was a stubborn assumption to correct, too. Even if he wanted to admit the truth to someone he normally interfaced with, that mech would probably still revert to familiar fragging halfway through the check. The heat of the moment or the sheer glee of having a rad-scan patient at their mercy sent Decepticons on a power trip, and Vortex wasn’t stupid enough to think that his wishes would be honored unless he picked the right partner. Except that the mechs he would actually like to choose when he was in check actively fled the other direction. Because he was slagging _Vortex_ , and Vortex was synonymous with _’ouch.’_

Hence the reason he was currently hiding out in a swamp in Bali, far away from anyone. The Elite Decepticons were just not cutting it for him. Not during his check. 

Brooding and gloomy, the helicopter shifted his weight on his tires. They squished in the dirt, and he sank lower. Metal pinged as his body rapidly cooled, systems sinking into a sluggish statis that would be full of tests and internal scans until suddenly it wouldn’t be. He’d ditched his ammunition at the outpost before he’d left, so hopefully he could wrestle his weapon systems down into testing via aggressive simulations instead of live practice. He’d outright stolen as many battle sims as he could off of Brawl and Onslaught before getting thrown off the _Victory_ , just for that purpose. He really hoped they worked.

Because if sims were enough to satisfy his weapon systems, then the flashdrive stuffed full of porn bought off of Rumble _might_ be enough to get him through the interface equipment stage of the check. Primus, did he hope so.

The Combaticon in the swamp was alone, and that’s how he wanted to stay.

 

**[* * * * *]**


	3. Part Three: Hook

**[* * * * *]  
Part Three: Hook  
[* * * * *]**

It wasn't the most memorable battle ever, but it had its moments.

For one thing, it was the first real battle on Earth since the wave of cascading checks had hit both factions like an avalanche. There had been minor brawls, of course, but mostly of the variety where Ironhide hauled a brace of Autobots in the midst of system tests out to beat on whatever set of Decepticons was in the same situation under Bonecrusher's pretense of care. There was tussling. Dirt and insults got thrown in equal measure. Bonecrusher booted the combatants into the nearest body of water whenever things got too heated. Ironhide fearlessly tore in to grab whatever weaponry wasn't actually attached and therefore part of the check itself. Otherwise, both bruisers/referees had stood around on the sidelines wearing the exact same look of exasperated tolerance as Megatron tossed the Dinobots around and got thrown around in turn.

Megatron did seem to be targeting Grimlock more than usual during the battle, so maybe the check had left him with something to prove. If so, Grimlock seemed just as happy to return the favor -- and the fire. Optimus Prime looked a tad unsettled to be ignored.

But then Motormaster T-boned him, and things went back to what passed for normal on Earth. There wasn't much that stood out as unusual on the battlefield here, anymore. Megatron going after Grimlock was only mildly odd. Superion playing hacky sack with Blitzwing's tankmode got a few wide optics but not much real surprise.

Vortex lurking into battle forty minutes late, looking like he'd been steamrolled by the mud fairy? Honestly, Hook wouldn't have even noticed except that Megatron had been bellowing into the shared gestalt frequency since the mission had launched three hours ago. Vortex should have left Bali immediately upon notification of the upcoming raid and, at the very latest, joined up with the rest of the group as they flew out over the Pacific Ocean. 

Instead, the helicopter had dawdled. The Insecticons had transmitted a rude noise instead of a status report on the missing Combaticon's location when Soundwave sent a query. That had forced Megatron to angrily send a specific order to ensure the loyalty programming kicked Vortex in the back of the head. Which it'd done, but the order had been to join up with the raid. Apparently, Megatron had said nothing about how quickly that happened. From the looks of it, Vortex had landed on the other side of the hill from the power plant everyone was fighting over, and he'd walked from there. Dragging his heels, and possibly stopping to roll down the side of the hill, if the lack of clean plating was anything to go by.

_*“ **Finally!** ”*_ Onslaught yelled into the gestalt frequency when Vortex reluctantly pinged onto the network. _*“Combaticons! Combine into -- “*_

Vortex interrupted him with an alarmed, _*”No!”*_

Onslaught was no construction frame, but he had a military groundmode that was almost as hefty. Hook and Scrapper exchanged amused glances when that powerful altmode engine growled furiously over the open commline. _*”I give orders, not options.”*_

_*”We can't combine,”*_ Vortex insisted. _*”Megatron hasn't ordered it.”*_

Scrapper barked a laugh that transmitted clearly. Hook could almost hear it slice into Onslaught's pride. _*”You didn't hear him **order** it because **you weren't here** ,”*_ the Combaticon team leader grated out, patience filed down to nothing by the Constructicons listening in on his lack of control over his own gestalt.

_*”Maybe, but –- oops, look at that, have to fight now. 'Scuse me.”*_ Across the battlefield, Hook could barely see the grungy mess that was Vortex launch himself into the ongoing fight between the two Autobot primary color advocates and Thrust, who had no idea what to think of the sudden assist. Even Sideswipe and Sunstreaker seemed confused to be tackled so enthusiastically by a mech who typically stuck to harassing them from the air instead of going for hand-to-hand combat. _*”I'll join up with you when I get there!”*_

_*” **Vortex!**_ Vortex! _”*_

_*”Fsssh sorry what kssht can't hear you! Interference!”*_

_*”No interference detected,”*_ Soundwave broke into the conversation to say.

_*”I can hear you making the 'static' noises,”*_ Thrust yelled, loud enough to be heard over Vortex's external microphone pick-up. 

_*”Yeah, we can, too. I'm all for you not doing the Bruticus thing,”*_ the Autobot grunted as a fist took him in the chest hard enough to buckle his hood, but his twin took up the thread without missing a beat, _*”but your excuses **suck**. Trouble in paradise, Comblatispawn?”* _

_*”Shut **up** ,”*_ Vortex said, but it wasn't clear who he was talking to.

_*”Get your rotors over here before I peel them off!”*_

Strangely, Onslaught’s threat seemed to cause Vortex to throw himself into the fight even harder. The twin Autobots stopped laughing in order to keep up with the things being thrown at their faces. Hook was fairly sure he saw the ‘copter throw a punch, a kick, and a small mammal of some kind, all within the space of ten seconds. 

“Where’d he get the monkey?” Scrapper asked from beside Hook where they both knelt doing a battlefield patchjob on Astrotrain. Devastator would have been useful in the fight, but getting Astrotrain airworthy and loaded with energon cubes was more important. Both Constructicons were laughing themselves to ventilation hitches, but luckily, they were the _competent_ gestalt team and could therefore multitask repairs and mockery.

“Do I even want to know what you're laughing at?” Astrotrain asked woozily. He'd gotten shot out of the sky by the Aerialbots before Starscream's troops had taken to the sky, and he'd landed badly. One thruster was crumpled inward and needed to be hammered back out before the ignition switch could be reconnected safely.

Onslaught swore over the gestalt channel in a completely emotionless voice that did absolutely nothing to hide just how much Vortex's blatant disobedience torqued him off. Swindle was incredulously asking what the frag was going on in Vortex's head while Brawl brayed laughter in off-tune chorus with Bonecrusher, Long Haul, and Scavenger. Mixmaster rolled up towing a sled stacked high with the cubes he and the Reflector components had been manufacturing while the fight raged. All four of them grinned madly even as they formed a chain to pass the cubes into Astrotrain's cargobay. Scrapper and Hook watched Vortex attempt to force-feed Sunstreaker what looked like a handful of colorful feathers as Thrust held off Sideswipe. 

Their hands didn't stop work, but their disturbing dual giggles made Astrotrain's answer obvious. “No. No, I don't. Don't tell me.”

“Vortex.”

“I said don't tell me!”

The yellow Autobot didn't want the feathers, it appeared. The 'copter who'd just tripped him to the ground and gleefully started pounding them into the mech's face didn't stop, however. It wasn't often that Decepticons gave gifts, probably for precisely this reason. “Pretty birdie!” Vortex crowed loud enough to be heard across the noise of Superion playing tug-of-war with four flyers using Blitzwing's unconscious frame. 

The truly annoying part of the Aerialbots combining was that their gestalt mind was so blasted _playful_. Which likely explained why Superion caught what was probably a frantic comm-blurt from Sideswipe, turned a thoughtful look on Sunstreaker's losing fight, and let go of Blitzwing. The sudden lack of resistance sent the triple-changer soaring across the battlefield as Starscream, Thundercracker, Ramjet, and Blast Off yelped in surprise and lost their grip on him. 

Superion ignored them in order to lift a hand and wave cheerfully. “Hello, Vortex.”

Superion was a large combiner. Even in the friendly tone the Autobot gestalt used, it was a clarion call.

Startled, the lone Combaticon looked up. So did half the fighting mechs.

Onslaught's creative threat-riddled diatribe was abruptly overridden on the gestalt frequency as a command code dropped in. He'd been too occupied with Grimlock to notice Vortex's arrival but, thanks to Superion, Megatron was now very much aware of his stray interrogator's presence. He roared, _*“Combaticons, combine!”*_ and that was the end of Vortex's queer behavior.

For about ten minutes, anyway. 

Bruticus wasn't the brightest bulb in the fixture, but there were times Hook wondered if the whole gestalt wasn't so low-wattage because a couple of the mechs involved acted as brain-drains. Maybe cumulative intelligence lowered because of, say, Brawl's presence when the Combaticons combined. The tank had the brain module of a decrepit artillery operator: not stupid within the realm of _'point at the enemy and let loose',_ but fairly dumb outside that.

However, standing there staring dully at Defensor was a new one. Sure, Bruticus had formed and commenced punting troublesome Autobots left and right as per usual, but then the Protectobots had formed up. Suddenly Bruticus was just standing there. One arm lifted slowly, but it hesitated. That wasn't a fighting move. Bruticus was reaching for the other gestalt, and that was it. His arm seemed to be leading, because the rest of his body wasn't sure it wanted to be involved in whatever that arm was doing.

Defensor looked at that extended arm, promptly grabbed it, and performed a flawless hip throw.

The look of total confusion on the larger combiner's face was priceless. For a gestalt whose merged minds usually gravitated toward murder and mayhem, Bruticus seemed unable to grasp the violence happening today. He lay there on the ground and stared at the sky, arm still outstretched.

The Constructicons thought was the funniest thing they'd ever seen. Hook's lips tried to smile, but he kept his professional mask in place with impeccable control. Mixmaster and Scrapper had no such problem showing their amusement; they leaned against each other as they muffled howling laughter in each other's shoulders. There was nothing quite as satisfying as seeing the upstart combiner team fall flat on their collective faces. 

Megatron was apoplectic with fury, unable to do more than clench his fists as his optics burnt crimson with deep anger. He was abandoned on the battlefield as even Soundwave decided to go pick on an Autobot further away from the enraged leader of the Decepticons. Optimus Prime tagged Grimlock, and both Autobot sneaked out of the silver mech's line of sight. Hook knew what they were thinking: with any luck, Megatron would be so caught up in punishing the Combaticons that he'd forget about the battle.

Fah, as if the Decepticons were _that_ single-minded! Starscream shrieked through the sky and landed beside Astrotrain in a blast of hot air and fire. “Are you **finished** yet?” he demanded.

“Right on time,” Scrapper said, smoothly clicking the last panel back into place with all the self-confidence of a combiner team leader who’d just delivered while the competition floundered.

Starscream, slagger that he was, picked up Megatron’s dropped ball like the Second-in-Command only idiots forgot he was. His command code dropped onto the shared gestalt frequency as he sneered, _*“At least **one** of you combiners can do what you’re told!”*_

Ooo, acid burn on a raw injury. Hook knew exactly what Starscream had done, but he still couldn’t stop his shoulders from squaring proudly in sync with the rest of the Constructicons. They straightened up under the backhanded praise even as Motormaster snarled utter hatred and Bruticus flinched where he clumsily clambered to his feet. Across the battlefield, Megatron’s menacing stalk toward the Combaticon gestalt halted, and the silver mech turned to squint toward Astrotrain. Astrotrain, who was fully loaded, repaired, and ready to launch.

_*“Well done, Scrapper,”*_ Megatron said gruffly onto the gestalt frequency, because he gave credit where it was due. Especially when it rubbed failure in the faces of those who’d screwed up. Hook sniffed disdainfully, but that didn't burst Scrapper’s bubble of heady triumph. Not that the surgeon minded, because it was always nice to have another check mark to point at whenever the Stunticons or Combaticons started in on how the Constructicons were mere repairmechs. Mmhmm. Tell that to Megatron, punks.

There was a click of the channel opening to a widespread broadcast. _*“Decepticons, return to base! Autobots, remain in our paths at your peril!”*_

Scrapper and Hook covered Astrotrain’s launch path, weapons ready in case one of the Autobots with more diodes than common sense tried to snipe the shuttle while he was still moving slowly enough to be vulnerable. Prime typically gave orders to pull back and allow the Decepticons to depart to minimize further injury, as Megatron’s standard response to potshots taken after the objective was won involved leveling anything manmade between the battle site and the ocean. That made allowing the Decepticons to ‘retreat’ peacefully the better option. In return for this unofficial clear path, the Decepticon flew high and left the humans alone. 

Starscream didn’t do more than give a dismissive glance when the little yellow Minibot scout dared sprint past him to start digging for survivors under the collapsed wall of the powerplant. Hook just shifted so he could split his attention between the Autobot and Astrotrain’s departure.

Starscream took off to join the other jets in flying escort for the heavily laden shuttle, and both Constructicons relaxed their guard. The raid had gone well. More than well, for them. Megatron would acknowledge their exemplary work again during the mission debriefing. That would be sweet, because the debriefing would require Onslaught and Motormaster to report their complete failures in play-by-play detail for the edification of all the officers. Hook had every intention of pulling rank as head of the repair bay in order to get in on that show.

It was all normal for an energy raid here on Earth. It wasn’t so normal when Onslaught came storming over, Vortex in tow, before Hook and Scrapper could boost into the air to fly back to the _Victory_. “Hook!” The Combaticon ‘copter stumbled along in his commander’s wake, unable to catch his balance as a strong hand on one rotor blade kept pulling him backward despite how he dug in his heels and tried to lunge free. Desperate hands grabbed for the open sky, and Vortex _leaned_ when Onslaught stopped. “Hook, what the **frag**. You said we were finished with this scrap!”

“As Soundwave is the one with telepathy mods,” Hook sighed in his most put-upon tone, “you will have to elaborate on just what scrap you are referring to. Considering the state of your team on a good day, scrap is your natural state of being. Right now, I’m unable to narrow down the candidates for your particular piece of scrap.”

Onslaught stared for a moment, too infuriated to know where to begin. Scrapper chuckled wickedly over the Constructicon frequency. The Autobot coughed to cover a snicker of his own and busied himself digging for a group of three terrified humans trapped under the pile of rubble. 

The Combaticon switched his glare to the Autobot and snarled before yanking his psycho subordinate front and center. “ **This** is the scrap I’m -- _**Vortex!**_ ” 

Unfortunately for Onslaught’s dignity, Vortex yielded to the sudden pull, ducked under his commander’s arm, and kept going, rotor hub rotating unexpectedly and taking Onslaught off-guard. The ‘copter leaped into the air with a roar of thrusters engaging, and his rotors slid out of the hand scrabbling for it. Onslaught hollered a shocked curse, and Scrapper dove to the ground as Vortex flipped through transformation, swinging right through where he’d been standing. The helicopter swooped, rotors catching air, and whirled out of reach.

By the time Onslaught got himself turned in the right direction, the ‘copter had already whupped into a deranged flight path that nobody had a chance at shooting, much less following. Vortex put the ‘whirl’ in ‘whirly gig.’ 

The Combaticon turned back around to face two Constructicons. They looking very amused at his expense. The chopping sound faded into the distance as his rogue subordinate fled.

“That scrap?” Scrapper asked pointedly. 

“Yes,” Onslaught said in utter hatred. “That scrap.” His voice shifted to a bitingly sugared tone, and he looked at Hook in sudden innocence. “I don’t blame you, you know. It’s not your fault. It’s not as if you have adequate **training** , after all. An actual **medic** would have noticed, but you?” He _tsk-tsk_ ed, shaking his head, and Hook’s hands curled into fists. “Although I’m somewhat surprised at the level of incompetence revealed by this, Hook. What have the Decepticons come to that we trust partially trained hackjob surgeons with our repairs? Vortex is in check, and you didn’t even know.”

The anger rising like magma in Hook’s chest chilled to ice. “He’s…in check?” How was that possible? _How was that slagging possible?_ He’d induced the check just like Ratchet had instructed, and Primus knew the Autobot medic wouldn’t lie to him about _this_. The yellow Autobot squawked a mechanical sound of horror, grabbed the humans, and took off running as if the news were physically catapulting him toward an authority figure. Hook could empathize with his alarm.

“You pulled a system log off him, didn’t you?” Scrapper was saying, partially for the benefit of the Combaticon trying to glare holes through Hook. 

“Yes,” the surgeon said as memory pulled up the relevant timestamp to make sure. The actual log was stored on the repair bay monitors, but he remembered taking the log. “Yes, I did,” he said more confidently. “It came back normal. His systems have already gone through a full turnover.” In other words, Onslaught was a lying cogsucker. The two Constructicons lifted their chins and tried to stare him down as a united front.

He folded his arms and met their stares head-on. “I have a system report from Bruticus that says otherwise.”

That report pinged across the gestalt frequency at the same moment as a status update from Soundwave flooded the Decepticon frequencies. All three Decepticons stiffened, shared an involuntarily companionable look of smugness, and launched into the air. Streaks of laserfire and a single, sad grenade passed through where they’d been standing a second earlier, and the three mechs deftly weaved into a confusing flight pattern until they were out of reach of unaided weaponry. The Aerialbots might have been able to catch up with them, but the less twittery two out of the flock had already taken off back toward the Autobot base carrying wounded. The other three weren’t trusted in combat without supervision, and the Decepticons were out of sight of the power plant in a few minutes.

Leaving Ironhide captured, and the Autobots with no leverage to barter his return. Which was always a good way to leave the Autobots, in the Decepticons’ opinion. More death would be better yet, but one couldn’t have everything.

Scrapper and Hook flew side-by-side, and Hook dug into Onslaught’s transmitted data when Scrapper gave him a questioning look. Not that he necessarily doubted Onslaught on this one; gestalt links trumped any medical tool available in the repair bay. Sure enough, the system logs scrolling down the side of his HUD showed a series of completed scans with several more systems queued up to begin testing. Meaning that Vortex had made a mockery of Hook yet again. Not only had he insulted the surgeon to the point where Hook lost his temper -- something he refused to admit happened the day afterward -- but he’d slipped a falsified record past him.

_*”Get me,”*_ Hook said, low and dangerous over the shared frequency, _*”that helicopter.”*_

_*”That’ll be harder than it sounds. He’s shut himself off the comms completely, and even if I involve Lord Megatron, orders from him only activate the loyalty programming if they can be communicated to us.”*_ An interesting loophole to reveal, but not a weakness Hook gave a scrap about right now. _*”I can’t even track him. The Insecticons say he has tickets to Disney Land,”*_ Scrapper and Hook groaned in frustration, recalling the Skywarp debacle, _*”but it seems more likely that he’ll hide in Bali or southern India. Frag if I know why he’s hiding, but I’ve already alerted Soundwave to keep everyone in groups until we locate him.”*_ Onslaught, of all mechs, knew just how ugly things could get for any Decepticon Vortex got his sadistic hands on any day of the week. In the midst of check? 

Hook sent a Priority One medical alert to tag along with Onslaught’s warning. No Decepticon should be caught alone until they safely corralled Vortex. They needed to find that slagging interrogator!

_*“He must have faked the system log,”*_ Hook forced out, because it was either admit it now or have it slapped in his face later by the Combaticon leader. Onslaught snorted his intakes, letting his silence on Hook’s oversight speak for itself. For the moment, at least. Hook was grimly certain it would make a reappearance at the debriefing if the Constructicons so much as smirked over the Combaticons’ failure. 

Something that suddenly made a lot more sense, actually. _*”How much did he affect the rest of you?”*_ He’d never combined with the other Constructicons while any of them were in check. It was interesting idea. He wished he could have monitored all five of Combaticons while it happened.

Onslaught hesitated strangely. _*”It was -- it affected us. I’m not sure how to explain how. It seems that combining triggered the switch to the interface equipment checks, but…”*_ Oh, that was not good news. That was not good news at all. Except that Onslaught seemed more uncomfortable than alarmed by Vortex careening about in the beginning of the interface stage of the check. _*”We’ve combined when he’s horny. We once combined in the middle of he and Brawl interfacing -- “*_

_*”I could have done without knowing that,”*_ Scrapper said dryly.

_*”Medical information,”*_ Hook snapped back, impervious to the despicable mental images inflicted upon him.

_*”As I was saying,”*_ Onslaught interrupted their interruption, _*”I know what lust feels like when interpreted from someone else's systems. From Vortex and Brawl, it makes Bruticus more violent. Usually. This time...you saw.”*_

_*”We did,”*_ Hook agreed thoughtfully. _*”Perhaps there was system conflict as his interface equipment tried to take priority over combat protocols. He's a walking frag waiting to happen, but even his equipment can't overturn four other mechs' focus.”*_ He hoped so. Bruticus trying to interface _anything_ was enough to give rational minds nightmares.

Onslaught seemed to share that horrible vision. _*”I've already filed a request with Lord Megatron that Bruticus be dropped from the combat roster. Just in case.”*_

_*”That's probably for the best,”*_ Scrapper said faintly. _*”How does he wish us to deal with Vortex?”*_

_*”Isolation. Do you still have that list of volunteers to 'face him through this?”*_ Onslaught seemed relieved that the Decepticon leader was giving Vortex a free pass on his behavior. One thing they all realized was that this wasn't normal for the 'copter. Something about going into check had triggered weirdness, and he himself didn't appear to like it. He certainly hadn't seemed happy, anyway.

_*”I still have it.”*_ Hook had started taking volunteers as soon as it'd hit him that Vortex would eventually go into check just like the rest of them. _*”We have to find him, first.”*_

_*”He has to turn up, one way or another. He can't possibly try to dodge the rad-scan,”*_ Scrapper said, but he sounded like he doubted his own words. _*”He can't be that off.”*_

Onslaught and Hook were both silent for a moment, and Hook snarled a wordless noise as his quick search pulled up nothing. Onslaught must have found it at the same time, because the Combaticon sighed heavily. _*”There's nothing in the regulations about reporting for the rad-scan.”*_

The Combaticons were bound by the loyalty programming to obey the Decepticon military rules and regulations to the letter, unless countermanded by a superior officer. And Onslaught was right: nowhere was it written that soldiers had to submit to the rad-scan. It was never something that had needed to be written down. That was like specifically writing in that guns should be shot instead of thrown at the Autobots. Sure, a mech could disobey the unwritten rule, but why would he even think to?

_*”This is ridiculous. There's nothing in his record indicating past difficulties with the check.”*_ Something kind of strange, in and of itself, as Hook had rather expected a list of rape assault charges under every medical entry. Instead, Vortex came up with a clean rad-scan every single time. So why was he evading Hook's examination? Irritation nibbled at the surgeon's thin patience. _*”I am going to **tie him to a berth** when you find him,”* _ he said in a clipped voice after scouring the record a last time. Not a single complaint from the interrogator's past medics. Why by all that rusted did Vortex pick _now_ to play shy?!

_*”Maybe that's what he wants.”*_ Onslaught sounded resigned. He was stuck in a gestalt with the mech, the poor slagger.

If Vortex wanted Hook annoyed enough to strap him down for systematic interfacing by the whole blasted list of volunteers, then he'd gotten his wish. The surgeon scowled and made plans. Vengeful, painful plans. The 'copter couldn't evade him forever, and Hook was going to be ready.

 

**[* * * * *]**


	4. Part Four: Vortex

Additional Kinkmeme Request: 

http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/11776.html?thread=13317120#t13317120  
 _So Vortex is a flyer and while not a seeker/jet he still gets the *Heat* or period of reproductive initiative or whatever the writer wants to call it. But unlike the seekers who turn into crazed interface-aholics, it turns the psycho copter sane. Completely, sobering, sane and he hates it because he of all mechs would love to be fragged like a freak show at any other time._

_He tries to hide it from everyone/gestalt because of his reputation as liking the interface kinky stuff would lead to him getting violated in ways his new found sanity shutters at._

_So he finds some mech that can oblige him a normal interface and never speak of it again._

 

**[* * * * *]**

**Part Four: Ironhide**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

This wasn’t Ironhide’s first jailbreak.

However, as Dirge hit the floor in a horrendously loud clatter of limbs and a pained groan, Ironhide reflected that this was probably the first time the jailbreaking had been done by a Decepticon. He took a preventative step back as the fight ended before it really got going, and Vortex shot the other ‘Con full in the face with his glue gun. Bits of glue spattered into the front of the cell from between the bars. It muffled Dirge’s groan before it could become anything louder. It also plastered the Conehead’s jaw and neck to the ground, effectively pinning the mech down. Dirge commenced flailing about clawing at the sticky stuff.

While he did that, the Combaticon who’d ambushed him jumped over his kicking legs and started in on the door to the brig cell. Ironhide took another step back. He wasn’t about to start cowering at the back of the cell like a cornered turbofox, but Vortex was the Cybertronian equivalent of that glue: _‘ewww, don’t let it touch me.’_

Ironhide debated whether or not to try wedging himself under the flimsy slab of metal serving as the cell’s only furniture. Hiding under the bed might not be dignified, but it was more of a statement of refusal to cooperate. Because, really. Ew.

Vortex didn’t appear to notice the Autobot’s disgust. “Fragging Pit,” he muttered after getting interrupted three times in a row by Dirge vigorously kicking him in the leg. “Stoppit! It’s not like I won’t punch you out if I have to.” Dirge paused to think that over, and Vortex successfully entered the code this time. He swiped his hand over the ID scanner and opened the cell door. “Rust covered wreck of a -- there. Why do we never **change** these codes?”

Ironhide had opened his mouth to say something sarcastic about whatever was going on, but he just looked at the ‘copter for that comment. Probably for the same reason there was a signal jammer in the brig that prevented Dirge for calling for back-up instead of disabling prisoners’ communication arrays. Sure, locating and destroying every transmitter in a mech like Bumblebee would require time and effort, but it’d prevent things like this right here from happening. So would regularly changing the brig codes, but that didn’t happen, either.

Personally, he thought it was because Soundwave and Red Alert were having some sort of internal security competition, rated by the number of prisoners who could escape the cells. Points, so far as he could tell, were deducted by how many minutes the escapees could run around without getting caught. It was the only reason the old red Autobot could think of why Red Alert didn’t pitch a fit at the frenquestly malfunctioning security cameras in the _Ark_ ’s brig.

And why Vortex was hauling him out of the cell by one shoulder without an alarm being raised. “Well, if it ain’t the resident slimeball of the ‘Cons. Where we goin’, scumbag?” Ironhide asked mildly. He let Dirge trip him up, deliberately tangling his legs with the Conehead’s. Vortex grunted as he almost fell out of the Combaticon’s hands. They managed to keep him upright at the last second, and Ironhide was bustled out of range of the jet’s thrashing limbs. “Hey, watch the finish!” 

Not that Ironhide really had much of a finish after twelve hours in the Decepticon brig, but it was the sass that counted. Vortex shot him an unreadable look but ignored his protest. Ironhide grumbled his engine and dragged his feet against the pull. Normally he wouldn’t be this abrasive while captured, but he knew from Dirge’s comments earlier that Laserbeak had gotten her tiny aft captured right after the battle. 

Ha. Chalk one up for Red Alert. Soundwave wouldn’t _let_ anyone bust up Ironhide for fear of reprisal on his symbiote. There would be a prisoner trade, one way or another, but prisoner abuse made negotiations tricky. Soundwave did not do ‘tricky’ when it came to getting one of his precious Cassetticons back. He did _’gimme’_ or _’I kill you dead.’_ There was no third option, unless it was _’teehee, jailbreak time.’_

Which this was, but Ironhide had the feeling that this was not a Soundwave-approved jailbreak. It wasn’t sneaky enough. In fact, it didn’t qualify as a jailbreak so much as a hijacking. Maybe a kidnapping. That left him with his wrists cuffed behind his back and a notoriously sadistic interrogator on one arm either way, only without the dubious control of a Decepticon authority figure calling the shots on what the gearhead did to him. 

Innate self-assurance and the start of foreboding circled in Ironhide’s mind, trying to decide who would come out on top. Soundwave wouldn’t let anything put Laserbeak in peril, but Soundwave couldn’t stop what wasn’t authorized in the first place.

Vortex ignored him for the moment in order to whirl around and bend down. He pointed a finger at Dirge’s face. “I’m calling in that favor. I want ten minutes’ head start, got it?”

“You’re kidding me.” The prone ‘Con had clawed the glue out of his mouth enough to talk. He looked between finger and the red visor glaring at him. The finger was shaking just slightly, the way a stim-junkie’s did if he went too long between fixes. The visor looked a teensy bit desperate, too. 

Ironhide watched with interest. Decepticon internal politics were a spectator sport. Who had the upper hand in power today?

“Do I **look** like I’m joking?” Vortex barked. “Ten minutes!”

“I’ll give you five,” Dirge said after a moment’s thought and weighing just how jittery the ‘copter seemed to be.

“Nine.”

“Five.”

“You **owe** me, slagger!” Vortex leaned down further, and Ironhide caught the tail end of a hissed whisper. “ -- tell everyone and their buffer about it!”

The wings on Dirge’s legs skreeled on the floor as he tried to retreat into it. Out of nowhere, the jet seemed a lot more intimidated by the Combaticon. “...seven. Any more than that, and Screamer’ll have my stabilizers for wall decorations.”

Vortex looked both ways down the aisle. Just because it was clear didn’t mean that another Decepticon wouldn’t come to check on the prisoner soon, and the longer Dirge kept him talking, the greater that risk was. “Fine. You,” he straightened up and pushed at the Autobot’s arm to direct him forward, “go. Move it!”

Right, because leaving the brig was the better option? Ironhide didn’t believe that for a second. He took his time, despite the urgent shoves at his arm and shoulders. Vortex was a twitching mess of armor and rotor blades a third again his height and more than twice his mass, but he was clearly not operating under any sort of official capacity. The truckformer wondered if he should start yelling for help. Getting saved by Decepticons from a Decepticon would be the epitome of weird, but...

When they turned the corner, he took a last glance back down the brig’s center aisle. The pitying look from Dirge made him think that dignity could go jump in an acid vat this round. He was over his head and sinking deeper every step he took.

So he put his tires to the ground and clinched his parking brakes on, stubbornly skidding to a halt at the door to the brig. “Where’re we going?” he demanded when Vortex gave him another shove. “I’m not leaving this brig ‘til ya tell me where you’re takin’ me!”

Saying that gave him the strangest feeling. Usually, when Autobots left the brig in Vortex’s care, the interrogator was overly informative in a gleeful way or eerily, creepily composed. Either way, the ‘copter typically bled sinister intent. There wasn’t much question about where an Autobot was being taken, or what would happen when they arrived.

Right now? Vortex looked like a fugitive on the run, and Ironhide didn’t have the faintest idea what the frag was going on.

The Combaticon stopped and looked away from him, ostensibly examining the empty guard station for only he knew what.

“I’ll start yellin’ my head off,” his captive threatened, half meaning it.

To his surprise, the blocky mech whipped his head around to give him a stricken look. “Don’t you **dare**.” 

Ironhide eyed him askance. “Why?”

There was a click as a vocalizer engaged. Nearly a minute later, there was another as the ‘copter shut it back off again. Vortex coughed as if there was a hardware error, but the Autobot was sure his quizzical look conveyed just how much he believed that. 

Vortex chose not to meet his optics. Instead, he bypassed the hanging question by forcibly swinging Ironhide around, leaving tire tracks on the floor, and pushing him out of sight against the wall. His free hand slapped the door controls, and the hand on the smaller mech’s shoulder tightened in warning: no noise, prisoner. 

“Slaggit!” was breathed out as he peeked through, and the door was palmed shut again. Vortex plastered himself beside the Autobot, braced for a fight but still holding the Autobot in one hand.

Ironhide gauged the quiet footsteps approaching down the corridor outside the door. By his estimate, it was a big ‘Con. Perfect. Smelt dignity; he wanted out of this weird situation right now. 

He inhaled loudly. “ **Hel** \-- “

A hand slammed over his mouth, and suddenly there was several tons of helicopter wrapped around him like the universe’s bulkiest muffler. Ironhide gagged in shock as two fingers accidentally slipped sidelong past his lips in Vortex’s haste, but then he snarled and bit _down_ as hard as he could. The ‘copter yipped and ripped his hand free, realized his mistake, and fumbled to keep Ironhide’s mouth covered without losing a finger this time. Which was strange, because usually he seemed to enjoy small injuries gained during subduing a struggling mech.

“Somewhere else! I’m taking you somewhere else,” Vortex whispered frantically, huddling over him and speaking right into his audio. “I don’t know where, yet. Look, I’m -- I’m not going to hurt you, I swear.” This close, the hot thrum of aroused systems was impossible to hide, and Ironhide really started struggling. The Combaticon pinned him against the wall and tried to keep him still. “Stop! Shhh! I can’t let you go, but I’m not going to torture you, interrogate you, anything! I just -- I’ll explain when we’re safe, alright?” 

He glanced to the side at the door. It remained closed. The footsteps in the corridor had slowed when Ironhide began shouting, but they hadn’t stopped. Ironhide’s attempts to squirm free from under the ‘copter holding him to the wall didn’t cause enough noise to make the passing ‘Con stop, and the footsteps continued on down the corridor and faded away. Vortex relaxed by a minute amount. The hold he had on Ironhide eased gradually, and he looked down at the red Autobot as he let his hand lift away one finger at a time from Ironhide’s mouth. 

The hand lifted only the shortest distance, just waiting to clamp down again in case he started calling for help. Ironhide gazed up at the clearly deranged mech, and he felt stuck somewhere between bemused indignation and incredulous laughter. This was definitely ranking as the weirdest thing that had ever happened to him in a Decepticon brig, and that included the time the Stunticons had taught themselves how to play the violin while on guard duty. 

He opened his mouth, but the hand still hovering over his face tensed. Ironhide paused to consider his options. Call for help or go with it?

It was funny how the ‘Con seemed to be searching for words. After a solid minute of staring down at him uncertainly, the ‘copter settled on a belligerent, “Please.”

Oh, right, because Ironhide was supposed to trust one of the worst Decepticons in existence because he said please? What was next, Starscream showing up in a pastel paintjob and expecting everyone to believe he’d turned over a new leaf? Pfft, no. Not going to happen. 

Calling for help it was. “ **Hel** mmphrrrprtt! _Hrrftt!_ ”

“I asked,” the Combaticon snarled as he hoisted Ironhide up like a sack of spare parts. Ironhide _oof_ ed as his grill met Vortex’s shoulder armor, and he gave the rotor blade now far too close to his face a wary look. “I asked, but has that ever worked? No! Nobody ever listens to me!”

It took two intersections and a long stretch of jogging for Ironhide’s ventilation system to adjust to the streaking pressure-pain from bouncing over someone’s shoulder like this. “Nobody listens ‘cause nobody wants to do what ya ask!” Ironhide huffed. “Crazy ‘Con!”

The arm curled around his knees meant he couldn’t kick, and he knew better than to bite anything within range right now. Going for neck cabling or rotor blades was a far cry from trying to bite off a finger. Getting Vortex, of all mechs, riled up like _that_ meant that the interrogation session would include some exceptionally unpleasant methods of firewall hacking. Of course, the interrogator was perverse enough that even going limp and unresponsive wasn’t enough to deter him. Then he actively tried to force responses. Struggling excited him, giving up challenged him -- frag, there was no way to win with this ‘Con!

Time to tap out of the game. “Hey! Hey, Vortex is over this way! Cybertron to Soundwave!” Ironhide arched his backstruts and twisted, trying to make the biggest scene possible to catch the optic of whomever was watching the security cameras. Vortex went from a jog to a fast sprint. The Autobot smirked grimly and timed his shouts to fall between the pressure pounding his grill and causing his vents to hiccup. “Hee-ee-eeh- **eh!** -eey, Decep-ti-ti-ti-creeps! A little -- ow! -- help, here!”

Vortex ducked his helm and pelted down the corridors, chanting, “Shut up, shut **up** , fraggit!” The rotor blade beside Ironhide’s face flicked like the Decepticon wanted to let his rotor assembly spin, but to Ironhide’s surprise, it stopped before it sliced into him. The smaller mech canted his head out of chopping range as he kept yelling between huffs of air every time his chest met shoulder. His captor matched him volume-for-volume with, “Shut up shut up shut up shut -- frag!”

The change in their duet came as the _Victory_ ’s PA system clicked on. Megatron’s gravelly voice filled the stuffy air. “Vortex! I know you’re onboard somewhere. Report to the repair bay immediately, and I won’t have you smelted down for scrap!”

“Primus frag me Primus frag me Primus frag me!” Vortex resumed chanting, but he sounded...weird. He’d been loud before, but now he was really loud, which was odd if he was trying to evade capture.

Ironhide twisted, trying to see the mech’s expression. The Combaticons were unable to disobey Megatron’s commands. The Autobots didn’t know much about the return of the Bruticus gestalt, but they knew that Shockwave and Starscream had done something to the team that rendered them docile. To Megatron, anyway. Big metallic lapdogs, for Megatron; giant angry junkyard Sharkicons, for anyone else. 

Yet Vortex wasn’t slowing down. Ironhide had memorized the layout of the _Victory_ as mapped out by the Autobot SpecOps’ minions, and he could tell that they weren’t going toward the repair bay. What the frag was going on?

The loudspeaker blared white noise for a second before Megatron’s message repeated. And again. It went into a loop as repetitive as Vortex’s profane litany. More so, because the orders from Megatron stayed the same but Vortex’s recitation sprouted further obscenities the longer this bizarre situation stretched out. His voice sounded somewhat odd, however, and Ironhide couldn’t figure it out. Loud, and some of the words came out with the vowels mispronounced. Was the ‘copter panicking that badly?

The Autobot wriggled, wrists turning against the cuffs, but the arm holding onto his legs didn’t budge. He kept twisting to shout at the cameras. They were becoming sparser as the Combaticon dodged into deeper, darker corridors leading into the lower levels of the _Victory_. The Decepticon ship had crashed into the ocean years ago and hadn’t retained hull integrity. There were reasons it had never lifted off again, and the leaks in the lower level were a big one. 

It reeked like rust and salt water down here. Rust, salt water, and organic rot. Ironhide didn’t enjoy the smell of metallic decay, but it was tolerable. The smell of organic things growing was about the same, for him, but organic rot smelled _horrible_. Growing flowers were okay, but cut flowers started to turn his tanks after about a day.

Down in the lowest levels of the crashed ship, far away from the sterile additions the Constructicons had built for the Decepticons to live and work in, the air was musty, close, and stank unbearably of dead fish. Ironhide swallowed over and over again and shut his vents as far as he could without suffocating himself. It took conscious effort not to bury his nose in his captor’s shoulder armor. His main olfactory sensors were located in his nose and mouth, and right now all they could smell and taste was slimy, nasty dead things. Vortex, at least, smelled of joint lubricant and solvent. And dirt, oddly. And...mushrooms? 

Actually, come to think of it, Vortex kind of smelled bad, too. He just smelled better than the air down here did.

Vortex ran down endless corridors, turned countless corners, dropped through a rent in the floor of a room he had to kick open a door to get into, and eventually ended up in what had to be an abandoned engine room. The engine had apparently been taken out for use elsewhere, leaving the room bare. Bare until someone had moved in crates of ammunition and weaponry, that was. From the size of the weapons Ironhide could spot through the slats on the crates, they were human firearms. 

“One of Swindle’s hideyholes?” he asked when the ‘Con unceremoniously dumped him into a puddle of sea water on the floor. “Hey! Ya do that again, and I’ll drop-kick your aft into a compactor!” 

The ‘copter didn’t appear to hear him, or was ignoring him entirely. Instead, the taller mech turned to make sure that the abundance of deadbolts and locks on the inside of the door were secured. Ironhide grunted and rolled up onto his knees. By the time he heaved onto his feet, Vortex had turned back around to look at him. 

They stared at each other: Decepticon and Autobot, fugitive and abducted prisoner. Ironhide stood his ground, optics narrowing in challenge. 

The challenge wasn’t taken. Instead, Vortex pointed at the side of his own helm before opening his hand in a questioning gesture. 

Ironhide stared. What the..? 

The ‘copter did the weird routine a second time, this time looking impatient. When the uncomprehending stare didn’t falter, Vortex sighed heavily and cupped a hand over one concealed helm audio like he was -- he was -- miming?

The old red Autobot took a step back as it clicked into place. Vortex hadn’t been ignoring him; he’d turned off his audios. The Combaticon was miming listening for something, and asking if Ironhide could hear it. Hear what?

Oh. 

Ironhide hid a grin. Well, then. So Megatron couldn’t order the Combaticons around if they couldn’t hear him giving orders, huh? This was becoming hilarious. He’d wager that the ‘copter had his communication array switched off, too, which would mean a perfect opportunity to take the mech out and escape if he didn’t have his wrists cuffed behind his back. He could take care of that, now that he wasn’t bouncing around on the slagger’s shoulder, but -- c’mon, really? Did Vortex really expect an abducted enemy prisoner to cooperate?

He pretended to listen, tipping his helm to the side and squinting one optic. Look at him listening so hard, uh-huh, yep, he surely was. The PA system had likely died in the constant dripping wet damp down here long ago. There wasn’t even an echo of Megatron’s voice in the room, but Ironhide widened his optics and shook his head strenuously. Oh no! Too bad, so sad, now what would the walking handmixer do next?

He had to admit that he was kind of curious to see.

Vortex’s engines whined in frustration, but the Combaticon cut them off after a second. He gave the door a paranoid glance before shooting Ironhide another querying look. Ironhide smothered a laugh and pulled out his best earnest face. Afraid of pursuit, was he? Aw, poor little ‘Con. 

He could have pretended sympathy, but Ironhide was having too much fun. He turned to show three fingers, trying to indicate that he heard three mechs outside the door, and Vortex burst into motion. The Combaticon threw his back against the nearest pile of crates, pushing it to the front of the room. Half the stack went to block the door, and the rest reinforced the makeshift wall. 

Then Vortex darted forward, visor still set wide in an anxious expression. Ironhide lost it and started laughing as his arm was snatched into a rough hold and used to drag him to the back of the room. Vortex’s attention was on the door, luckily, and when the ‘copter looked away from that, it was to focus on carefully building a defensive wall out of the stockpile of ammunition. Ironhide laughed harder. 

When he finally noticed his captive laughing his aft off at him, the Combaticon made a half-frustrated, half-embarrassed gesture. Yes, yes, he was building a barricade out of explosive material. He was well aware that it was stupid, okay? Keep it down over there, Autobot! Didn’t he know he was supposed to be quiet?!

Ironhide knew. Ironhide didn’t care. “I don’t even know whatcher doing, but I want t’ sell tickets.”

The ‘Con watched his mouth move, and the red visor darkened into a ferocious scowl as Vortex caught on. “You -- “ The bigger mech paused, checking his volume as he apparently brought his audios back online and realized how loud he’d had his vocalizer turned up. That did explain why he’d been talking strangely. “You think this is a game?”

Oops, caught. Oops, still didn’t care. “You tell me, mech. What the frag kinda game is this, and can I get a rulebook?” Seriously, what in the Pit was going on?

The Combaticon glared at him. One side of the angry visor squinched up, and Vortex let his rotors spin once as he turned on a heel to walk around the makeshift barrier. He crept over to the door to lean against the wall beside it and listen very, very cautiously for pursuers, or Megatron’s voice, or whatever else he seemed afraid to hear. 

“It’s not a game,” he insisted after a minute of listening.

“Uh-huh.” If the perverted sadist was over on that end of the room, then Ironhide was just going to put this convenient wall of crates between them. Having his hands bound and the door locked made escape more difficult, but according to Jazz, locks and cuffs only made it a fair fight for the Decepticons. And considering the saboteur’s track record for these kind of circumstances, Ironhide had to believe him on that one.

Not that he was entirely sure what the circumstances _were_. “So, we safe yet?” Primus, he hoped not. Safety shouldn’t smell this bad. There was a rotted marine critter back here. 

His question made Vortex give the door another nervous look. “I guess. It won’t take Ravage long to track me, but, uh -- right.” Rotor blades spun, and the ‘copter shifted from foot to foot without actually turning to face him. The anger had left the mech, leaving a vast well of restless energy that made Ironhide want to crawl out of his own armor to escape. If he’d been brought down here by Cybertron’s creepiest sleezebag for what the suppressed revving of flight engines suggested, things had just taken a turn from bizarre to nauseatingly horrible. Was it going to be a hasty torture session for interrogation, or a forced interfacing involving decaying tentacles?

It didn’t make _sense_. Vortex wasn’t even _looking_ at him, and the aggression Ironhide expected was completely absent. The red visor kept flicking to him, then immediately away. The big ‘Con just stood the door, hands at his sides and bleeding heat into the fetid air in the room.

The ‘copter sucked in a deep vent and let it out slowly. “You want an explanation.”

Ironhide did his best to look attentive. An explanation would be great, but in the meantime, his wrists were turning in the cuffs behind his back. He hadn’t bothered trying to escape from the brig because prisoner exchanges on Earth were fairly straightforward. Whatever this here was, it wasn’t straightforward. Ironhide didn’t know what it was, exactly, but anything involving Vortex inching toward him was automatically convoluted and bad. The cuffs had to go.

The ‘Con shuffled forward, taking baby steps. Ironhide edged away, keeping the crates between them. Their little keep-away dance stopped when the ‘copter realized Ironhide was trying to maneuver around toward the door.

“It’s like this,” Vortex started, reluctant but resigned, and he explained.

When he was done, he looked at the Autobot expectantly. Ironhide numbly gaped back at him. Baby steps were ventured. Even sunk in shock, the red mech scooted back, and Vortex’s shoulders slumped. “Well?”

Ironhide said something. It might have even been a word. 

Vortex waited a couple more minutes for something more coherent, but Ironhide only blinked a few times. 

When it became clear the short mech hadn’t followed his first attempt at an explanation, the Combaticon explained it again. This time, he used smaller words at a slightly higher volume, as the first explanation had trailed off into mumbling about midway through when Ironhide’s stunned expression had finally stared him down. The second time through didn’t change that expression any, however, and Vortex gingerly inched close enough to stretch out an arm.

Fingers snapped in front of the Ironhide’s optics. He saw them but couldn’t make himself react. They were there. He was here. That meant that this was the real world. Those fingers belonged to Vortex, and he was here in the room with Ironhide, and therefore that backward, illogical, unbelievable explanation had actually happened.

He just couldn’t process that. Ironhide had been handed round pegs for round holes, but instead of smoothly inserting Peg A into the appropriate Hole B, he was standing over the peg board trying to stuff the whole handful into one hole while wondering, “Durrr?” 

Vortex crossed his arms uncomfortably and shifted around some more. Ironhide stared at him. Pegs continued to be fumbled. Some of them dropped and rolled around on the floor, slipping out of his mental hands and scattering off in all directions. The red visor glazed slightly as the ‘Con waited for him to catch up with events, but it took Ironhide a few minutes more to realize the vacant look was because Vortex had slid open an access hatch on his side. 

Ironhide blinked, resetting his optics. Grey fingers dabbled into the open hatch, quite obviously doing what they could to relieve the charge that had engines under lockdown straining to turn over. The ‘copter rocked up onto the tips of his feet, rotor blades shivering. Huh. If Vortex really was in check, the drive to interface had to be gnawing his self-control to shreds.

That, more than anything, convinced Ironhide that Vortex wasn’t lying out his exhaust pipe. The Combaticon’s lack of self-control when it came to interfacing was legendary in an extremely bad way. So watching the interface imperative make Vortex desperate enough to _jack off_ in front of him instead of _jumping_ him was far more telling than any words the mech said.

“Why me?” Ironhide asked at last. His wrists jerked as the cuffs finally popped free, but he kept them together behind his back. Giving away the advantage wasn’t in the plan. 

Neither was fraternizing with the enemy, but he was beginning to entertain the option. Vaguely. In a distant, it-could-happen way. 

...it was really hard to wrap his head around this.

Vortex reset his visor twice before he could focus on the question. The fingers stroking in the hatch withdrew and clenched into a tight fist. “Interface equipment won’t accept self-servicing,” he replied hoarsely. It sounded like he’d borrowed Starscream’s vocalizer. “I tried that. Won’t work. I can’t get any of the others I wanted. Soundwave would trace it if I tried contacting them, and -- “ He made a disgruntled sound, anger overwhelming raw lust for a second. “Your fragging pals got Laserbeak.”

That gave Ironhide pause. The way Vortex had said that sounded like he’d...no way. “Laserbeak?” he asked, sickly curious. He couldn’t have heard that right.

But Vortex shrugged, hands opening and closing restlessly. When the red mech just looked at him, he grumbled but grudgingly added, “A good cleaning’s about all I can tolerate when I’m like this, and he’s small enough to detail my interior.”

That was a strange thought to entertain. Not a bad one, but strange because it was so blasted normal that picturing the mechs involved fried Ironhide’s brain module a bit. He’d stood guard over Soundwave’s little vulture menace before. He’d seen the preening. Laserbeak used that sharp beak to get into every nook and cranny on those tiny wings, and he could easily picture the Cassette preening rotor blades instead.

Wait. “‘He’?”

“Yeah.”

“Laserbeak’s a mech?”

Vortex seemed confused by his confusion. “Yes?”

Autobot Intelligence had gone nine million years assuming that Laserbeak was a femme, and Ironhide fell headfirst onto the truth via outright asking. Not that it really mattered, but that did explain the aura of smugness cloaking the flying chicken every time she -- _he_ got captured. Slipping gender, of all things, past Red Alert...and Jazz...and Ironhide himself...okay, so much for Autobot observational skills. The Cassette deserved to gloat.

He shook it off, because Laserbeak wasn’t important right now. What was important was that Vortex wanted to interface with him, and that was ninety different kinds of wrong right there. Although the mech had a point about not being able to get to his preferred partners. Megatron’s announcement had made it clear that Vortex wasn’t going to be allowed to choose how the check happened.

“That don’t tell me why ya picked **me** ,” Ironhide said slowly.

Grey fingers were crawling toward the open hatch again. Vortex stopped, in-vented deeply, and palmed the hatch shut. It looked like that small action had taken an inordinate amount of willpower. He refolded his arms even tighter. “I can’t take care of this on my own, and if I don’t pick my own frag-buddy, Hook’s got a **list**.” He swallowed, fuel intakes flexing, and Ironhide’s brow ridges furrowed to see that. “Megatron’s on it. So’s half the army. That’s -- “ The ‘copter clammed up and looked to the side, arms folded tightly across his chest but looking almost as if he was hugging himself. “I don’t want that.”

Ironhide tried to visualize it. A list of mechs ready to interface him through this stage of the check, and Vortex didn’t want it? The ‘Con was trying to cover what looked like fear, and he didn’t understand why a sadomasochistic into mixing pain with pleasure would recoil from what sounded like a free tour of Fragville. 

Well, no, he could sort of understand. It was just that he was having a hard time getting his processors to accept Vortex’s explanation, short words or not. 

He chose his words wisely, trying not to sound like he doubted the mech still. “‘xactly how much pressure is too much for you, right now?”

Vortex glanced at him, visor bleak. The Combaticon had called it a glitch. Ironhide knew it for what it was: prioritizing equipment input over interference from the mind’s interpretation of the data. Other system operations were suppressed to allow the interface equipment to be maxed out during the tests. 

That was, according to Vortex’s swiftly-glossed-over (and subsequently repeated) explanation, enough to turn a rough frag into an exercise of queasy, agonizing vertigo as internal changes to his interface equipment were reset and then rapidly reverted. Tests and personal taste turned his sensor network into a battleground of back-and-forth 180 degree changes that reeled his interface equipment through a gauntlet of sensation, none of which made Vortex feel anything approaching ‘good.’ 

It made sense, but Ironhide had never heard of someone’s body going into chaotic upset from the check. Then again, he’d never heard of someone who enjoyed abuse as much as Vortex did.

Normally enjoyed abuse, because the number Vortex reluctantly cited wasn’t just low, it was ludicrously so. Ironhide’s hands turned and gripped each other behind his back, and he frowned as he measured the strength just a regular handhold applied to plating and the sensor network underneath. If the Combaticon couldn’t bear more than the lightest of touches without getting backlash from it, even the most vanilla of interfacing would feel like torture.

And now it was abundantly clear just why the ‘copter was running scared from Megatron’s order and Hook’s tender mercies. “You’re dead slag if anyone finds out about this, ain’tcha?” Ironhide smiled, and it wasn’t a pleasant expression. “Bet there are plenty of you ‘Cons who’d wait the whole vorn just for the check to get backatcha for the slag you pull.”

The Combaticon bristled, because that jab hit home. “I have absolutely no problem killing you if it goes outside this room,” he snapped, but Ironhide’s smile didn’t falter.

“Uh-huh, I’m sure ya would. You’re not gonna, though, ‘cause ya need me.”

It was almost cute how fast the mech deflated under his confident words. Yeah, Vortex needed him. Real bad. Real, _real_ bad, because Ironhide was the only mech in the whole blasted Decepticon base right now who could give him what the check was demanding. That was why he’d kidnapped an Autobot prisoner, despite how much trouble it’d get him into: the Autobots supported each other, and Vortex had reached the bitter edge of going it alone. He needed someone else, and he knew it.

Not that he’d admit it, of course. Pride took out more of the slagging ‘Cons than stupidity, although the two were related. “Don’t need **you** ,” Vortex muttered resentfully, visor glaring. “Just need someone to frag.”

Oh, Vortex, you sweet-talker. Sweep an Autobot off his feet still wearing cuffs, bring him to a brine-soaked sinkhole of a romantic get-away, and talk caustic to him. A mech wooing Ironhide’s own spark. “Someone ya ain’t gonna find unless ya break him outta the brig,” the old red mech pitilessly pointed out. Like, say, a mech too desperate to think straight would do. The check _required_ system tests. The interface equipment stage wasn’t optional. 

The Combaticon’s arms loosened, then tightened again as he failed to find an argument for that. Ironhide prowled forward, suddenly turning the tables on the ‘copter, and Vortex’s rotor hub pressed back against the crates behind him as the Autobot advanced. The door was locked against the other Decepticons, but that locked Vortex in here with _him_. The ‘Con wasn’t thinking about it that way yet, but he would.

“Nah, ya don’t need me at all. Ya need someone who’s not gonna tie up your cables, ‘face ya through the floor, and make ya scream for mommy when he won’t stop,” Ironhide continued. “Hey, you’re right. If that’s all ya need, why don’t we just call your gestalt team down here t’ take care of ya?” 

An uneasy tremor made rotor blades twitch, and Vortex’s vents flipped open and shut nervously. That idea held no appeal whatsoever, it seemed. The Combaticon tried to cover the jolt of horror by turning his head aside and avoiding the topic. “I don’t have a mother.”

“Wanna bet?” The small Autobot deliberately uncrossed his wrists and brought them out from behind his back. Apprehension blossomed in Vortex’s visor as the ‘copter stared at the cuffs dangling from one wrist, but he warily stood his ground as Ironhide walked across the room to stand in front of him. Mech didn’t have a clue what he was getting into, playing these kind of games with someone old as Ironhide. This wasn’t Ironhide’s first whirlybird in the rodeo. The rules might have changed, but that’s what made the ride worth getting on. 

“I can have ya seeing Primus or cryin’ for mommy no problem, but the question is: why should I?” He leaned into Vortex’s personal space and smirked at how heat started pouring from every vent on the mech’s body. That engine lockdown wasn’t going to last much longer. 

Definitely in check. For once in his life, Vortex had told the truth. 

The negotiation power Ironhide had just been handed left him feeling giddy. “Why’d ya choose me, Combaticon? Huh? Why not go ask the _Ark_ for an assist?” He was truly curious. There were old obligations on him in place from before the war had started, but Ironhide was an Autobot, now. It’d take more than the check for him to render aid to a Decepticon, these days.

The tall Combaticon swayed in place, torn between recoiling from the question and reaching for the warm body his systems craved. “I...this is the last place Hook’ll look for me...”

“Until ya broke me out. Now **every** body knows you’re here somewhere, and they’re gonna come getcha.” Ironhide eased close enough that hot air blew on him directly, and he had to look almost straight up to smirk at Vortex. “All for nothing, ‘cause I ain’t got a single reason to give ya a helping,” he lifted one hand, sliding it up the front of scorching hot armor with only the fingertips touching, “hand.”

Vortex’s visor went black, and the arms folded across the wide chest fell limp as the ‘copter doubled over the pinpricks of pressure dragging up his midriff. He probably tried to prevent the moan from escaping, but it was as difficult to keep chained as Jazz. When Ironhide’s other hand rose to smooth down the sharp angle of the mech’s mask, a long, low noise of pleasure shuddered loose. Ironhide repeated the move, chuckling, and the taller mech’s legs buckled. Blocked system tests bulled through whatever stopgap measures Vortex had managed to put up to remain functional, and flight engines roared to life even as an already straining ventilation system tried its best to dump heat into the dense, damp air.

Ironhide hopped back a step as the ‘Con crashed to the ground, but his hands lingered on baking-hot armor. Vortex’s helm was now at mid-chest on him, and the Autobot couldn’t help but like that. He could feel Vortex trembling, especially with the way the ‘copter pushed into his hand. Ironhide pressed a thumb against the flat front plane of the Combaticon’s mask, and he let himself feel the crackling charge gathering under his other palm as it flattened slowly to grey armor. It felt good.

Looking down at the ‘copter kneeling in front of him, he silently admitted that the mech was attractive enough for casual interfacing. He’d always had a thing for the strong soldier types, and anyone who served under Optimus Prime knew the appeal of a face mask. Wide expanses of flat armor took a nice sheen that called for hands to explore, and he liked how light reflected off the corners formed by two flat pieces meeting. Vortex’s entire helm was unadorned, stripped of anything but simple angles and the sliding glass of a visor. Ironhide found the stark lines of highlight and shadow to be handsome.

That didn’t change the fact that this handsome mech was a particularly loathsome example of a Cybertronian. He might be moaning, brought to his knees by a couple of touches and humming from every fan in his body spinning at full power, but he was still Vortex: Combaticon, interrogator, and every other vile label the Decepticons had ever earned throughout the war. Plus some new epithets made up specifically for him.

If this had happened a couple weeks ago, Ironhide wouldn’t have hesitated. Things had been crazier then, however, and not crazy like being a prisoner kidnapped by a fugitive. Everyone’s check had hit in a cascade, one after another, and nobody had been able to keep things straight. Shoveling fragged-senseless Decepticons out of the _Ark_ had been a daily chore, and tracking down just who had gone where to do what had been an hourly task of interfactional dalliances nobody wanted to admit to the day afterward. Ironhide had lent a helping hand more than once to mechs he found revolting the rest of the time, and he’d been fine with that.

This wasn’t then, however. Now, he needed some convincing.

So he stood there rubbing his thumb up and down that clean-cut mask, waiting for system pressure and his accompanying grin to pinch Vortex a little more. The mech needed him, and he intended to exploit that negotiating power, if only to satisfy his curiosity. 

It took patiently waiting him out -- and a few fingers sweeping down under the mech’s chin, scratching at the joint where mask met throat -- but Vortex cracked. “I saw the opportunity,” he gasped through almost visible surges of energy. Ironhide could feel the static building under his palm in leaping waves with every tiny massage along that hidden line. “You’re _erk!_ ” 

Three hatches spontaneously popped open, interface equipment overriding the panting mech’s maxed-out control. They exposed themselves like they were begging to be used, and Vortex’s vocalizer crackle-popped at the smack of cool air on hot cables. The damp air _steamed_ as it met his jack tips and achingly empty ports. It was an incredibly erotic sight as rotor blades quivered, but then, Ironhide normally found mechs in check to be arousing. The lack of emotional connection because of the physical demand made interfacing during check an exercise in pure, molten, carnal desire. Nothing wrong with love, but good old _lust_ brought this truck to the yard. He just plain enjoyed the lack of complications that interfacing typically brought.

Hated enemy or not, he was halfway convinced to go along with this. The fraternization rules had already been bent enough in the past two months that one last mech in check could be accommodated without consequences raining down on Ironhide’s head. Vortex was a scrapheap reject of the worst kind, but he was undeniably attractive. No complications, no connections, just fragging Vortex until he couldn’t see straight? He might convinced to help out, here.

Shaking hands rose but hovered, not sure where or if to reach for him, and Ironhide’s smug expression dared the ‘Con to try. Vortex’s vocalizer clicked as it tried to engage and only choked out a binary squeak when black fingers dug in and _ground_ where mask met neck cabling. The tender gesture had the red visor flickering and Vortex’s fingers curling on thin air. The disproportionate reactions to light foreplay was intriguing.

Okay, maybe he’d help the Combaticon out. But he wasn’t going to make it easy for the slagger.

He leaned down and nuzzled the side of Vortex’s helm, venting hard to trigger over-sensitive sensors that’d rebel against anything harsher. The Decepticon whimpered softly, but it wasn’t a sound of pain. Of course not. A hedonist was a hedonist, even if the parameters had reset from sadomasochism to featherlight touching. Ironhide was going to make sure the ‘Con loved every barely-there brush of his hands. Eventually. Once he was talked into the deal. 

“You didn’t have t’ go for **me** ,” he repeated, cocky.

“You’re in charge of supervising the check!” Vortex gasped, head rolling back as Ironhide exvented hard and took a delicate taste of flat plane of his helm. The heat and pressure of his tongue had that wide red visor utterly blind to the world. “I saw it when I was ah. Ahhh.”

Words dissolved into muted noises. Intelligence degenerated into the primitive _need_ of active interfacing systems.

He had to in-vent after a while, granting the ‘copter a brief respite from the warm skirl of moving air that had ignited tactile sensors into a electric web of snapping charge under grey armor. Ironhide took the opportunity to bring his other hand into play, grazing upward from midriff to collar in a wandering trail of skimming fingertips. “Yep. That don’t mean I’m special.” Ratchet had overseen the Autobots in check, too. Ironhide just got the visible portion because he was in charge of making sure the weapon system tests didn’t get out of control.

That soft whimper came again, and Vortex’s hands settled on Ironhide’s hips as if searching for something solid to hold onto. The red mech retaliated by caressing the Combaticon’s collar armor. The whimper was louder this time as sweet charge lapped higher under the fondling.

Vortex had to drop his head and concentrate hard in order to gather enough wits to speak. “Autobots. Owe me.” The fingers massaging under his chin slid around and tipped his face up to trace along his jawline. The ‘copter leaned into that light touch with his entire body trembling. “Helped...ohhh Primus. I helped two of those...flyers. And the boat. I -- you owe me. Pulling in the favors. Now.”

Ah- _ha_. And that solved a mystery even Jazz and Prowl brainstorming together hadn’t been able to figure out. The Constructicons had cooperated with Ratchet to get the Earth-bound Cybertronians through the check. That’d been unusual, but it’d made sense considering the fact that nobody wanted a disease outbreak. Vortex’s involvement hadn’t made any sense at all, however, and it’d baffled the Autobots.

Now, suddenly, it made sense. And if this was what the blasted ‘copter wanted in return -- well, Ironhide could oblige.

Vortex’s vocalizer lost power as the black hand on his collar armor opened around his neck, thumb over the main fuel line and fingers wrapping around to massage into the back linkages that so rarely got attention. Ironhide put just enough pressure behind his grip to make that visor go dark again. 

“Alright,” he said, letting his engine idle. It vibrated his plating subtly. It wouldn’t cause anything but a pleasant buzzing thrum for most mechs, but Vortex’s fans hitched. “C’mere, ya aft.”

It took some fancy maneuvering because of their height and mass differences, but they managed to arrange themselves on the floor after a few minutes of fitting limbs and armor together. Ironhide put his back against the wall beside the door, and the Decepticon slumped between his legs, rotor hub pressed to his grill and helm lolling back to rest on his shoulder. Black hands smoothed and petted, and Vortex squirmed in helpless bliss under touches so light they didn’t even scratch his paint. Defensive discomfort had disappeared into the ecstatic wriggling of a mech who took his pleasure however and from whomever it came. Ironhide couldn’t say he didn’t understand that.

“Like that, yeah. Yeah.” Vortex arched up, then bent the opposite direction to push into the rumble of a groundbound engine. A low groan echoed every rev.

Squirming turned into sharp cries when Ironhide bent to the side to blow a stream of hot air into the nearest open access hatch. “Yes!”

The old mech chuckled and pursed his lips as if he was about to kiss the port. The seat convulsed, rim clenching on air it was eager to wrap around metal. His tongue, a compatible connector, _anything_ as long as it was metal and could transmit a jolt of charge! The prongs inside almost vibrated, waiting for the moist swipe of his tongue, and Ironhide’s mouth stretched in a grin as he puffed a burst of air into it instead. Vortex shrieked a shrill bleat of binary cursing, but that collapsed into breathless laughter closer to sobbing than amusement. Ironhide watched the fitful flicker of his visor and judged the reaction to be sheer pleasure. Heh. 

Some more teasing at the port gained him a list of inventive new threats, a half-sparked attempt to struggle out of his arms, and Vortex clutching at his forearms, urging more, more, _more_. Ironhide gave the ‘Con a lazy grin and lowered his head to kiss along the open hatch, letting displaced air send Vortex’s port rims into helpless bitty attempts at seizing what he wasn’t giving them. He didn’t even have a hatch of his own open, and Vortex’s interface equipment was clacking in mechanical desire for his components. He took his time with a few more kisses and licks, rendering the ‘copter into weakly begging putty in his lap, before deciding it was time to move on. 

The port and cable were bypassed for now. He spooled out one of his own cables, choosing to start with a low-traffic jack to test the waters. He carefully plugged it into a searing hot socket that practically convulsed around him as it slid home. The sound Vortex made was louder than a whimper but higher than a moan, and it kept going as the Autobot pulled the jack out and thrust it partially in a couple more times. Flight engines roared under every slick _*snickt*_ of the jack and socket. When Vortex seemed suitably undone, Ironhide decided enough was enough and pushed the jack in all the way.

His interface systems spun up, but he limited himself to the smallest data burst he could: a knocking packet. It traveled down the cable and pinged Vortex’s firewalls, simply checking to make sure the connection was up and running. 

Vortex’s helm cracked back so fast Ironhide almost got a corner to the face. “Yeaa **aaah!** ”

“Whoa nelly!”

The overflow of charge spurted out of Vortex’s connector tips in a firework show, pouring sparks down to sputter over the damp floor and reflect off the puddles. Ironhide had to reset his optics even as he scrambled to keep his hold on the Combaticon in his lap. Vortex stayed stiff as a board for another second before slumping one joint at a time back into his arms.

That...was a first. He’d never overloaded someone just by establishing the connection.

“The frag, mech?” he muttered, deciding that a one-way connection would have to do. It should be enough to satisfy the interface equipment check stage, anyway.

Humming with energy under the gusting heave of his ventilation system, Vortex rolled his helm to look at him. His visor was a sated burgundy, but there was hunger burning under the glass, still. “Told you. Sense...” He had to pause to in-vent deeply. “Sensitive.” 

Ironhide eyed him, revising his plan. “But good?”

The ‘copter tried to stretch and ended up spasming instead when the inside edges of his upper and lower sets of rotor blades scraped over Ironhide’s shoulders and legs, respectively. “O-oh. Mmmm.” That visor dimmed for a moment as he paused to visibly enjoy the sensation. “You have **no** idea.”

Another knocking ping prickled over the Decepticon’s firewalls in a dispersal of foreign charge. “I might.”

Legs kicked. “Gaah _ah_.”

He grinned. This was going to be easier than he’d thought. “Here’s the plan,” he said, wedging his arms under the top set of rotors. “Ya listening?” He pulled the larger mech into a hug that had Vortex’s fans kicking back to full power as black fingers dipped into seams to pinch at wires and cables. Grey hands closed over his until a quick turn of his wrists nabbed the Combaticon’s hands in his own. A fast yank pulled the mech’s arms across a wide, well-armored torso in a self-hug, and Vortex’s startled jump when Ironhide got him wrapped up was slagging hilarious. 

“The plan,” he murmured into a hidden audio, and Vortex’s reflexive attempt to escape melted into limp surrender, “is to ‘face ya until your energy levels drop to low to keep goin’. I think you’re gonna be just fine with that,” he turned his head to breathe gently and make the ‘copter shudder, “and you’ll probably last ‘til they break down the door. They gonna let me finish what I started?”

Vortex’s visor had gone offline about the time lips met the side of his helm, but he made a small sound of agreement. 

Ironhide rewarded him with another nonsense ping. It apparently reverberated across his interface systems as if Ironhide had rung a bell, and the Autobot let him buck like a hooked fish in response. He doubted the other Decepticons would interfere. If it wasn’t abuse that’d endanger the prisoner exchange, they’d probably chuck some cubes in for refueling and seal the door shut to keep them contained. Since this was definitely not prisoner abuse, that meant they’d be left alone here once Ironhide assured the ‘Cons he had the rogue Combaticon under control.

Which also meant that he was likely going to spend the next two days stuck in a room full of sea water and the reek of dead fish. Allowing him frag Vortex through the check didn’t mean allowing him relocate to somewhere he could escape from, or even just be free of the horrid smell. Ugh.

But they _would_ have to relocate for the rad-scan, unless Hook wanted to install the scanning equipment down here. That wasn’t going to happen. Ironhide knew enough of the layout of the Decepticon repair bay to make plans. There wasn’t room enough in here, but the repair bay had space for what he had in mind. And it wasn’t an escape, believe it or not. He’d committed, and Autobots saw their commitments through to the end.

“When it’s time for the scan, I’m gonna take ya in altmode,” he purred, letting his engine speak more than his vocalizer. Vortex began moaning again as his grill transmitted the vibration straight into the rotor hub pressed to his chest. “We’re gonna transform, and I’m gonna slide my doors and roof along ya ‘til you squeal from how my panels catch on your seams. And I’m gonna keep going, because y’know how the scan works. Y’know how long it takes. Y’know that nothing ya say’s gonna make me speed up.” His voice was already a whisper, but now it fell even lower as he turned to mouth the words on grey armor. “How long can ya hold out, Decepticreep? Think ya can take my antenna trailing on your underbelly? Turning your tail rotor one spin at a time? Squeaka-sqeaka, slagger. Back and forth, again and again. Nestled up tight along your tail boom, changing gears and lettin’ my engine open up full throttle?” He squeezed the hands he held, carefully monitoring the pressure, and Vortex thrashed once before sinking back against him. “Might stop in front of ya, open my rear door, and back up to rub on your nose. I got some upholstery padding the inside. Wanna feel that on your fuselage?”

He could barely be heard by now, his words quiet puffs of air between the slippery slide of lips, and Vortex was shaking, shaking, coming to pieces wrapped up in Ironhide’s lap. The Autobot kept it infernally gentle, letting the shift of damp, cycled air and the tiny rattle of plating-on-plating do the work for him. 

“It’s softer than metal,” that voice stroked instead of spoke, and the Combaticon writhed, “softer than rubber. So soft it’ll feel like a good polish instead of a frag,” another squeeze of the hands trapped by a firm -- but not too firm -- grip, “and you’re gonna beg. You’re gonna beg me t’ overload, and I’m not gonna listen. I’m gonna plug in,” the socket spiraled open and shut around his jack, just feeling its presence, and Ironhide grunted deeply. “Plug in. Throw it into reverse. Back up so we ain’t even touching, and **keep** ya there. You’re gonna be shaking on your wheels, and I’m not gonna have t’ do anything but nudge my windshield against ya every couple of minutes. And mech, you’re gonna beg for me t’ get closer.”

Vortex whined thinly, sounding tormented as he teetered on the delicious edge where pleasure became punishment because it was so intense. Ironhide smiled against the side of his helm and pulled the Combaticon’s own arms tight. The whine took on a distinctly pleading note. “You’re gonna beg, and you’re gonna **love** it.”

He sent a single ping, and that was the end of it.

 

**[* * * * *]**


End file.
